Life Itself

I sit inside my silence, not even awake, maybe, waiting patiently for the cocoon to open, not eager, not afraid.

I wait.

What is tomorrow, if not another today, or yesterday, just one more random access memory? 

Life is that silence, and that waiting, and there is no now or later, only a continuum of time, woven with your soul. 

See? 

Now is already gone.

Slumbering in my cocoon, I dream of all the things that merit living, and that dream, that slumber, is life itself.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Interesting comments here. On the other hand, what if there is only now, and the movement of time only an illusion of the surface mind?

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

this wonderful poem really provokes thought. It is an enjoyable read. Thank you for sharing your work.