Let’s go on a trip together.



To the silent universe
doing what it does without asking
without questions
without purpose
with blackholes to take in all the absurdities,
with physics to describe but never explain what is happening on a basic level,
with art to throw the importance of the basic level out of the window.
Let’s go with one goal in mind,
to see.

The universe never asks.
It never tells us why too.
It is simply there, all bare, almost all
like the desert.
It goes on and on
we only take snapshots of it
 you with a camera
 me with data
 or a word or two.
 We see what we want to see.
But is what we see real?

You are a living piece of art.
Art is choice,
to pick what you like
but what you like
is not necessarily real.
Art is madness.
“The instant of decision is madness,”
so says Kierkegaard.

Our reality is always partial reality.
So we choose to include other bits by doing art.
Why do I write?
So that my writing may lead
to seas of dream
to oceans of imagination
to the unreal
to another nearly real
to the untouched
and untouchable.
For there to be a desert, there must be an artist.
Its silence powers her imagination.

The desert says “this is me,”
I have nothing to say about myself.
Hear the silence and the wind
and listen.
To me.
There is nothing but me.

For now,
For here,
I am me.