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Untitled- or- This is for you, Sartre 10/10/08

April 6, 2009

It serves no purpose other than to break up
dust and atoms,
to part the breath of a viewer,
to take in sun and release shade.

Empirically absolved by the manner in which
things don’t need purpose, or meaning,
but to exist because atoms have a silly
propensity for forming into volumes,
contemplating its worth is oblivious to
the truth of the matter-

Things are just things.

But looking at it,
taking in its steep curves and subtle cracks,
the variation in color,
the changes in its texture,
I long for a landscape of this same form
just to rely on something this variable,
but ultimately unchanging,
in the root of its environment.

Perhaps it would simplify a need
to feel important.

But I’ve already attached too much meaning to it
in my earnest detachment of objective observation.
This thing, it hovers
cradling my fears of a world that doesn’t know me
and will never remember me

The temptation rises just to smash it,
to destroy what reminds me of everything, and ever,
and time and place and memories,
seated in written history,
and stop resisting the urge to sentimentify all objects
that just exist and have existed and will continue to exist
independent of my consciousness.

I consider finding solace in an idea,
familiar,
that it only exists because I do
and I attach meaning to it,
thus it’s meaningful-

but I know that is pure folly.

The challenge is
can I willingly make myself
just like it:
unmeaningful, a collection of atoms,
content to be a thing among things.

Can I give up the hunger for recognition
and acknowledge my own futility

as an object that parts the light
and is pulled by gravity
until it is food for other things?

My tongue rejects the notion
out of instinct

and threatens me with death
simply by refusing to swallow.

Clearly, my mental drivel has been forced into bareness
by plainer needs.

And my soft tissue triumphs,
if only for a moment,
over my shallow desires to be unliving.

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