#funktofunky

We ask ourselves everyday ‘Who am I?’ Why me, and not someone else? Whose hands are these that grasp? Whose eyes are these that sob? Why has dust filled this room? Whose vein is this? What’s in it?

We began once as dust. At dusk we became ideas, These ideas took a broken form. Shackled to Matter and to Thought, Losing that dusky freedom. That idea burns the Matter, The Thought is shattered. Why is the idea still here?

From dust, as dust, to dust. Who chose the dust? Why shackle the free? How does the dust create, And why do I ignore it?

Dust builds in the dark, Dusk brings the ideas, That Mattery prison arises at Noon. That Mattery prison collapses by Night. All becomes dust, no more ideas.

Yet

The idea speaks, it hears. The dust sees Nothing, The dust hears Nothing, The dust isn’t Something. That idea is the harbinger of dust, That son made the father, Thus eternal. The dust is meaningless, The idea is everything. I am an idea, And there is no sunset.

Edited (Possible, incomplete): We ask ourselves everyday ‘Who am I?’ Why me, and not someone else? Whose hands are these that grasp? Whose eyes are these that sob? Why has dust filled this room? Whose vein is this? What’s in it?

We began once as dust. At dusk we became ideas, These ideas took a broken form, The form that creaks and groans, And that which hates itself. Shackled to Thought, Oh baneful Thought of what could be, That which never can be, That which tosses and turns the idea Which regrets its own existence.

We began in nothing but as something, The dust at first perhaps. That which forms all in Something, And the nothing in Nothing.

Losing that dusky freedom. That idea burns the Matter, The Thought is shattered. Why is the idea still here?

From dust, as dust, to dust. Who chose the dust? Why shackle the free? How does the dust create, And why do I ignore it?

Dust builds in the dark, Dusk brings the ideas, That Mattery prison arises at Noon. That Mattery prison collapses by Night. All becomes dust, no more ideas.

Yet