Tilinance

An automatic poem in constant formation, from my blog of the same name.

This

Is the universe.
Millions upon millions of orbits revolving,
Colliding, scattering and combining in gravitational fusion,
Dispersing and realigning into new microcosms.

Here we are, personalities fighting for sovereignty,
Infecting each other with our thoughts,
Influences and insults,
Loving and hating,
Both and neither.

There is no sense in any of it.

This is not a fictional novel
Sewn together with syntax for the benefit of some omniscient reader.
We are void of syntax and grammar.
There is no logic.
There are no binding legalities to refer to.
Our angers are frayed and aimless,
Our loves are messy and fraught with painful errors;
Blind and spastic, we are.

Everything we do comes from educated guesses,
Leaps of faith and capitulations to fate.
We are never sure which is which.

We are never sure of anything.


We watch each other; eyes crazed with paranoia.
We take each step carefully,
Praying that we pass through each day unscathed.

We are never sure of anything.

Being questioned sets our entire world off balance.
Could it be? Everything we know is wrong?
We are terrified of this question:

Could everything I know be wrong?

Too much work had gone into everything.
We organize our lives, like God,
In our own images, in each other's images.
The things we love most about ourselves,
Are pasted over the things we hate most about ourselves.
That is Image.
"Looks good to me.", we say.
We are adopted children,
fearing the thought that our birth parents-
Those that had abandoned us and that we have ourselves forsaken-
Are out there, walking the street.

Well of course, they are.

We only know and love our surrogates.
We can only love them.

We hold these things dear
And are insulted by any offensive that they may suffer.
Threatened. Fight or Flight.
Argue with obstinance or cry with infantile tears.
There are no shrugs of deflection.
Every rock splashes, displaces and settles at the bottom.
Surface tension may keep two panes of glass together,
But it is no armour.

We harbour deep hatred for each other,
And as deep is our love for each other.
We are confused by what we are feeling.
We want something from each other.
We yearn for it,
And are frustrated by our not receiving it.

I never let anyone know when my birthday is,
Unless I can trust that person to remember it when it comes.

We build truths around ourselves,
Love shrines,
And call them by our own names.
These sculptures are in tribute to each other.
They have nothing to do with ourselves.
They celebrate our favourite movies,
Our most exhilarating carnival rides,
Our most erotic escapades.
They honour our heroes and our valiant dead

Reviews

[Sarah B.]

love definitely is the step we need to take to find union with another, it's very hard sometimes i guess when fear is a factor, and we can only pull certain ones close. we begin as one and end as one, our memory amounts to what's most important and we all want what is best for us, so it gets tricky....and hope we are good in our choice, as for ourselves and another we wish to take along with us :)

[Spoken]

We are never sure of anything. We don't know what we want, yet we always seem to run from it. I think if we were absolute, if we knew all the reasons for everything, maybe we'd fade in the boredom of it all? I think we worry what if we get what we want and our lives are set in our purpose.. and we don't like it? If we roam in chaos at least there's a hope of something better. Great write Kees, I love the depth of ur words.

[An Ordinary Woman]

We harbour deep hatred for each other,
And as deep is our love for each other.
We are confused by what we are feeling.
We want something from each other.
We yearn for it,
And are frustrated by our not receiving it.

Isn't it funny how we run from that which we want the most? Remarkable really, when you stop and think about it. Excellent writing friend.

[alternative_be]

Sometimes the universe makes me think of Plato's cave of shadows ... Sometimes I do consider the fact that we are merely shadows of an intangible primary world that is not to be defined by us who call ourselves humans or maybe not really exists in the sense that we cannot capture our own existence nor are we able to define the universe... The human race thinks itself to be mighty, but we are mere shadows of reality, the reality that we will never know, because we are never sure of anything...
Oh yes, we might very well be adopted children, for we are the children of shadows of an intangible world.
All the things we hold dear, may be nothing but a figament of our imagination ...
Thanks for writing this, reminding us that the human race is not that high and mighty!