How many instances have I passed through, completely unaware that the simple act of choice, any choice, or even no choice at all, will set a precedent for chaotic movement forward into a future that I could not even have guessed at. How unpreparedly have I been given this power, the ultimate freedom to control and shape my own destiny. More than that though, the absolute freedom to at any and every moment change course and alter my own future forever. Wouldn't it have been easier to move trustingly into a life where fate has stretched out a rail that we ride on to a destination planned and known.



These are the existential thoughts that wake me at times. My mind worries at feelings that seem to be very much ignored or unnoticed by everyone around me. Today it is Possibility. In fact the proposition of infinite possibility.



This compelling facet of human consciousness winds all of my life up into a tangle of both hope and also anxiety, both absolute freedom and yet crushing responsibility.



I just like everyone else I was born new and empty, unchartered and alone in my emerging awareness and howling my confusion at a complex and indifferent universe. The crux of it is, if dwelt on there is no conclusion but to become aware that all of humanity is first censured then condemned to the breath catching realization that we are free to decide our own path and with every choice whether conscious of it or not shape all future existence. The sheer number of paths to choose can halt us to freeze at the cliff’s edge paralyzed by indecision.



The infinite nature of all possibility implies that there is no singular way to set a course, no correct way to live. I feel dizzy at this and have a headache.



So is there any meaning at all to be found. Clearly humans have always searched for this as both individuals and as a collective solace this has has been constructed carefully by means of cultural behaviours and ancient beliefs. Meaning and order and purpose is formed for us and around us. Perhaps meaning is not a thing that is given but must be actively searched for or constructed. Can I craft any meaning in a world that seems devoid of any inherent purpose.



I have the capacity to review past time to reflect upon my past. Perhaps choices made and courses altered. Memories and experiences undoubtedly shape our perception of all possibilities before us. Perhaps that means for us a choice we may have made remains unexplored. Because we have clear sight of what is past but only a limited grasp of our future, it’s like a confusing mess of shadow and light, half understood implications and inference, We are doomed to be pulled into the unknown.



As I move to the kitchen do begin my day these thoughts and more, much more beset me, trouble me and wear me down. Maybe coffee will help or not, I just don’t know anymore.

Yellow bleeds into empty space,
Fingers trace what’s forgotten—
Light bends, but doesn’t reach,
No warmth, no trace.

The wind erases what it touches,
Thoughts drift, lost in air.
Inside, a silence stretches,
Where words once lived.

A river fades,
But whispers crash—
Water turns to dust,
Silent in my chest.

A name, a face—
They slip like smoke,
Dissolving into nothing
I cannot grasp.

Nights unspool, threadbare and unspoken,
folding inward like paper never meant to be read.
Air thickens in the absence of weight,
a vacant gravity pressing against nothing.

I have stood inside mirrors that did not hold my shape,
watched glass ripple as if swallowing an afterthought.
Footsteps dissolve before touching the ground,
syllables decay before finding a mouth.
Sound moves, but not toward me.
Light bends, but does not stay.

They have names for the things I am not.
Soft words, dulled edges,
a kindness wrapped in misunderstanding.
But I have walked long enough to know
the difference between being unseen
and being erased.

Laughter hums in frequencies my bones do not carry,
a hymn for voices unfractured,
for hands that do not slip through their own grasp.
I have traced its outline, memorized its resonance,
a song played beyond a locked door.

Happiness is a language spoken in another room,
a warmth that does not cross thresholds,
a breath I have never drawn.
It moves past me like mist"
seen, felt, gone.

I have worn every shape, every silence,
have bent myself into something easier to hold.
But some voids do not hunger for filling,
some absences are not waiting to be undone.

If I reached for help, the air would take my hand.
If I vanished, the dust would not stir.
If I was meant to be more than a flicker,
the world must have long since turned the page.

patiently, i wait -
my legs crossed,
and my heart too.
much time has passed
since the inevitable happened,
and yet, the light of a clement morn
never fails to justify the agony
of dying stars in the night sky;
or the ones too dead for even the
darkness that consumed them.
the heavens dispatch their
messenger birds to nook the
wisdom into the branches
of trees whose roots have shrewd
under the weight of logs that
outline their ascent.
such trees call upon the sages
to enlighten them,
and to warn them -
for they know too well how the
message might confound in the grips
of those who practise hedonism.
perhaps, the light has always been
too blinding for mortal eyes.

the flowers bloom all the same;
the winds usher the fragrant truth -
slowly, but surely;
and i lie in hope for the
rancid thoughts to inevitably
take on new meanings…

patiently.

It's a funhouse of smoke and mirrors,
Where the unnatural angles & fumes
Have clearly affected their proprietors.
It's an old-timey, ****** circus;
The performing artists are mismanaged
By ringleaders who may be animals.
It's a rigged boardwalk game;
The hoop's too small or pegs too thick,
Baskets too tight or ***** too corpulent.
You can hit it square on,
Swing the hammer with a force sufficient,
But the bell hasn't been ringing.
Grab a hotdog,
Order a slice,
Get your popcorn & crackerjacks,
Your cotton candy & cream iced.
That sugar is a rush,
Like laffy taffy freebased off of a fish which is Swedish.
Get in your distractions,
Cause I don't forsee you winning.

It’s strange.
Lilies still in the wind.

An extraordinary wind at that.
Wind with a purpose so impertinent
It became love.

If you didn’t know any better,
You might name it something sweeter:
Abhorrence.

Your eyes sharp
And soft with desperation
Look at me for answers.

I’ve never seen anything quite like it
I marvel and speculate alongside you
We fall into a steady and cyclical dissonance
Are the lilies still anymore?

Yes, the sky is still blue. The grass,
Green.
It’s rather lovely.

I feel a tug. A pull.
With ease I lean into its plea
Spilling into silence,
I am gone.

You are here alone.
Delicately gilded, you are safe.

The lilies still in the wind.
Utterly strange.