Hollow words. Empty promises.
Are we all guilty? Does everyone have someone who could point to our own?
Why do some of us turn and run so quickly from our blindspots? Why can't we live in a more transparent world? Why do we let fear step into the driver's seat?
As a blade of grass I whisper vaporous notes on tracing paper. Who knows what anyone will see or read in the future? Perhaps a gas station receipt will be the lonely trace of a tyrannical superpower. Maybe love will endure unto the end. Or maybe there isn't even an end.
Maybe this is practice for what comes next. Maybe the dust and mostly nothingness that we're made up of is really something after all. Perhaps all this water inside us is feeding some unknown source beneath us. Maybe we're all jogging around a small floating ball, cheering to good health, clinking glasses, and waiting in lines for nothing. Maybe life is meaningless except for the meanings we ascribe ourselves.
Maybe there really is nothing between our fingertips.
But
I wish something were interlocking between my own fingers. What of my body is really mine to claim though anyway?
Perhaps I'm just throwing existential thoughts to the wind and the binary code that hides my message will hardly be seen outside these walls.
Maybe I'm dreaming, or it could be that I'm just a dream.
I have a recurring thought,
or an idea perhaps,
that maybe one day
I'll wake up inside a dream.
Could it be true?
