Sometimes it seems like there is nothing you can do. That what has already been done, has set the conditions a tad too concretely and that cement has already began to set. You, can no longer, cannot be what you already are not. And there is nothing you can do about it.
A somewhat depressing remark to what might be one of the few potentially uplifting/hopeful poems I have written.
It is quite frightening about how the decisions made now (and those already made) can and do open and close the opportunities that are available to you in the future. The question is, have I already made an irreversible error in judgement? And to end on a slightly lighter (and less ambiguous) note; perhaps the only thing one can do is to eschew logic and simply go with what feels right.
(non-image text version)
Every now and then,
the puzzle pieces spin, in place, through phases, past their quantum extremities.
.And arrive once again on a state passed before, some rotation ago.
.Some time ago, when you bent low, close to my ear and whispered in
.that deep harmonics of yours, that if waves stood between the indices –
.of half a glass of water; yours, would make the half-empty, half-full.
.That the world, yours and mine, still existed, in the silences,
. hushed between white noise –
.fuzz on the screen about your oscillations, as you twist,
. knobs for contrast, for intensity,
.as you adjust between; me, in, world, out, you.
.The image on the scope
. blurred by the in between.
.Before Atlantis slid
. below the sun-kissed white tussled surface.
.From before the world fell
. lost from my eyes.
.Before that wave collapsed
. and uncertainty sharpened.
.That that world,
. still existed, in –
.among the white board scrawl of half-solved derivations,
.between the postulates, the suppositions, superpositions, the chicken-scratch
.of half-answered problems, half-formed questions strewn about during last week’s
.frenzy to make the grade and give an answer in any form, of any kind, as long as it could
.For the moment,
. in that fleeting
. and then,
. our world exists,
. re-forming in the space
. between finger-length exchanges,
.beneath the gatherings of warmth in blanket-drawn cozy-ness,
. and you gather the words
. to whisper the world half-full.
(images SF 2008)