Let me just try to explain
The changes in my brain
The shift in the synapses
The rearranging of the road
Sit alone,
On the edge of the universe,
Looking out.
What do you see?
Probably nothing,
You can’t see anything
Beyond what exists.
But I can.
I have found the right lens
The right glasses
The right perspective
That allows the images
That are just beyond the edge of the universe
To filter into my brain.
This used to be what drove me insane,
Trying to see what wasn’t there
Trying to image what I couldn’t fathom
Trying to hear smells,
Taste light,
See sound.
Mr. Meursault
Thought to kill a man
For the sun.
He shrugged at the guillotine,
His long face still unemotional,
The crowd cheering hate.
I held my tongue and waited.
Listened.
Sat still as Siddhartha on the river,
Listening to the trickle of rememory,
All the different generation blended
Into a single reflection,
Reflecting himself.
Patient in the countryside,
Clara sat at her desk and wrote,
And waited for the right time to speak,
To use her voice.
Patient in the plains,
Ida sat before the screen,
And kept her powerful story
For the end, the climax.
Patiently in the ice,
Shukov lived one more day.
I listened,
Patiently,
Quietly,
Hidden behind musty pages
And fictional titles.
Observing what was beyond
The edge of the universe.
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