Sunday, October 04, 2009
It's killing me slowly.
Affording an appreciation of now,
then. What was, is, makes sense
only through this lens of ending.
What had a beginning must have
closure -- Snapped open, shut.
Learn from photography.
Existing -- click -- preserved.
Nothing changes the mid-moment,
and nothing can. What we are
is no movie but a snapshot. And
movement? Repetition of a singularity.
If you are reading this, you are alive.
This is all we know. Not quite. A writer
wrote it. Beyond this, we guess.
[Who took this? Are you trying to drown that beach ball?]
What is it that's killing me slowly?
c. Ciprianowords Inc. 2009