Free Thinker is a science thread on Facebook. Yeah, you heard right. There be science there on Facebook. Although don't much about astrophysics and understand little of what is on this thread, I do enjoy reading the heady ramblings of people far more knowledgeable about the universe than me. But every now and then a philosophical post I can understand . . . barely. This poem came out of a discussion on Free Thinker about reality and the philosophy of nothingness.
really seen before. Counting each wrinkle on that
alien face, each scar that you never were aware of.
You look and you stare and you analyze and criticize
every nook, every cranny every blemish that time created.
There's a warmth gathering around that hole inside you
where nothing lives, where nothing feels like home, like all
that you are is that nothingness and that nothingness
is more real, more solid, much more than what they've told
you, all your life they told you, what reality is supposed to be.
A bare existence that glares at you through that self you've
never known. You have never known. It feels like butterflies
fluttering around the fire’s light, like the deepest end of the pool
where panicky legs keep searching for the bottom and find
nothing more than . . . than . . . and there's that word again . . .
nothingness. All there is, all there’ll ever be . . . nothingness.
(rewrites o3-o9-18)
The
Nothingness
Extraordinary
to see yourself outside your . . . self;
looking
back into those eyes that you've never really seen before. Counting each wrinkle on that
alien face, each scar that you never were aware of.
You look and you stare and you analyze and criticize
every nook, every cranny every blemish that time created.
There's a warmth gathering around that hole inside you
where nothing lives, where nothing feels like home, like all
that you are is that nothingness and that nothingness
is more real, more solid, much more than what they've told
you, all your life they told you, what reality is supposed to be.
A bare existence that glares at you through that self you've
never known. You have never known. It feels like butterflies
fluttering around the fire’s light, like the deepest end of the pool
where panicky legs keep searching for the bottom and find
nothing more than . . . than . . . and there's that word again . . .
nothingness. All there is, all there’ll ever be . . . nothingness.
Not even a
splinter of a shadow left.
Woodie
o4-28-17(rewrites o3-o9-18)
No comments:
Post a Comment