Why do we leave this world and those left to suffer in it?
Maybe when I breathe my last breath, the world will cease to suffer.
Who can recite from experience what occurs after death, either in this world of terra firma, or the world of spirits?
The dead hold secrets, as do the living. Perhaps the two could strike a deal, but would they?
Most do not even think of it. Nor would they ever.
Civilization whirs. It pants, but strains still to run.
There is little time to think of striking a morbid deal, or to even consider what happens when a strain of a pitiful pant does so for the last time.
It is said: 'only the physical body remains'. Is that so?
'It is folly to questions such', quothe others. Is that so?
Folly is rarely the result of questions if the questioner is a seeker too.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Perhaps it would be only right, my thoughts shot at me later, to at least sit and partake of some Chinese.
Lonely souls, full of goodness, traces of hurt, can only participate in the social activity of eating so many times in solitude.
When else is he alone? Perhpas he enjoys people watching, sitting in his own silence.
Perhaps.
But he once asked me after a rather enthralling lecture of British Literature whether I would go out to dinner. The manner was respectful, reflecting his character predictably. Yet he asked for more than I wished, rather an abrubt invatation as we had never spoken more than miniature conversations at a time. Despite a clear decline on such a official occasion, I suggested we may sometime share a smoothie in the pavillion- in my eyes a much more casual "expectation free" event.
And yet I still feel a pang of sorrow, mercy, though I could not define what for the numerous times I spot him at his lonely table, partaking of nourishment, observing the action of oblivious flitting souls.
We may meet eyes from a distance and smile, not different from the days of British Literature.
Lonely souls, full of goodness, traces of hurt, can only participate in the social activity of eating so many times in solitude.
When else is he alone? Perhpas he enjoys people watching, sitting in his own silence.
Perhaps.
But he once asked me after a rather enthralling lecture of British Literature whether I would go out to dinner. The manner was respectful, reflecting his character predictably. Yet he asked for more than I wished, rather an abrubt invatation as we had never spoken more than miniature conversations at a time. Despite a clear decline on such a official occasion, I suggested we may sometime share a smoothie in the pavillion- in my eyes a much more casual "expectation free" event.
And yet I still feel a pang of sorrow, mercy, though I could not define what for the numerous times I spot him at his lonely table, partaking of nourishment, observing the action of oblivious flitting souls.
We may meet eyes from a distance and smile, not different from the days of British Literature.
False Comfort
I do not taste it,
I do not savor this,
My being feels it,
I do not,
I run,
It nudges me,
I interrogate,
It gives me voice,
The rain pelts,
It shields me,
O you false comfort,
What would life be without you
I do not savor this,
My being feels it,
I do not,
I run,
It nudges me,
I interrogate,
It gives me voice,
The rain pelts,
It shields me,
O you false comfort,
What would life be without you
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