Poetry
On What May Only Be Surmised— What’s Missing From This Picture?
And how to live again
--
Caught in the pleats of
continuum—
all
seemed once so
clear. Our senses captured
the
information,
but inside we weren’t
all
here. Interpretation turned to
illusion— who’d
have
born to
judge? But life’s so
short, and we’d find out;
until then
it’d be enough— until
the instant
in our lives, when
we’ll find
it’s time to fly, fall, or take the
steps needed
to die a
final
time.
Once, not too long ago, as a Catholic child, I believed I was meant for Messianic grade sacrifice in this life. Anticipation ruled my days and nights, as they were filled with vivid imagery, and feelings, of beatings, torture, Biblical crucifixion, and general actions which could rid me of my vices.
It was never necessary to be a good person, as empathy is infinitely more powerful. I proudly weeped for the pain of others; if lucky, their suffering would coincide with mine.
For myself, to be buried alive, following the laughters of certain emancipation, I bet I’d cry— though until now, I’d have not been sure for the exact reason why.
I’ve long fantasized of the void, a complete lack of pain. Now I realize there’s more I could be missing.
Will it be the same, in several or more eternities?
I imagine the empty peace of being a rock. This being doesn’t care to know— but they also miss the parties.
You— don’t party anyway!!
Oh, I know—
I know.
Some things may just change.
About the Author:
🔍 ㅤGustave Deresse Is a Canadian Writer, Editor, Roamer & Musical Artist Exploring Themes as Spirituality, Logic, Love, Life, Technology, Philosophy, Nature, Art, Neurocognitive Psychology, Creativity, Writing, Humour, Inspiration, Music, Well-being — and the Weird.
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I appreciate you, take care.
Sincerely,
— G
