#friendethan

A tale as old as time, is most likely garbled in randomness while moving away faster and faster as we too at the same pace.

At such dispersion, I wonder what we can truly hold on to, and what we can accurately record, without seeing uniform space throughout, so perfectly, it reminds me of those abstract paintings of pure colors, canvases no longer white against the immaculate wall. What am I supposed to be looking at?

Yet upon inspection, microscopic intervention, we observe the patient brush strokes of the artist, just random enough to cancel out any sign of heterogeneity.

Physical distance from any form of life can render us cold, unsure of our very own existence. This is why the Greeks decided to ostracize those criminals, not just for the safety of their citizens.

How strange, then, as society develops, we no longer wave to passersby, barely chirp our existence to make way, send words instead of voice.

Yet we spend hours watching past existences telling us of the future, informing us of the present, reminding us of the past... let’s forget about those furry friends. Is there connection there?

The sun will be hot and bright like today and continue its orbit about in the galaxy, though it will rise earlier and set later. The moon will too begin to set.

On Earth, tides will rise and fall, as it has for a thousand centuries, washing smooth the jagged pebbles exposing the inner structure that feels so comfortable to the touch—

I sink into it all the time, absorbing all the radiance that it receives from above, below, about (depending on your reference point), knowing without uncertainty that, in a week, you will have come back.

Looking up at the long forgotten sky, I see streaks untainted by clouds, little hints of blue, subtle dabs of green, shy splashes of magenta.

Perhaps you can say that I’m avoiding, averting a visit to the past, but I would say I’m just circumventing awkward moments that should not last.

Like how this poem just chose to rhyme; I would like it to stop some time! But the more I type, the more it’s ripe, the more I stick to this slime

As though we all have this tendency to fall back on what we’ve built because maybe we need victory to propel us out of past guilt.