If you were to touch me,
Would I feel it?
Would it really be you who touched me,
Or just a motionless carcass in the hands of a distant master?
My hand nimbly rests on my chest,
Involuntarily beating the rhythm
Of my life
– is it real?
It seems alert, but what is time?
There’s only perception.
All we do is to build walls,
To create stories, to fill seconds.
Yet what is life?
Could it be mere motion?
Does this solitary spider live?
His minuscule legs move
restlessly. Is that what life is?
You run, you run, until you’re mercilessly squashed
-like the spider.
Let me create, let me live.
Let me breathe, let me die.
Are sadness and happiness different?
And what’s ‘this second’?
Ah, it just passed.
And now… another one.
I see them fly around me,
As water drops in reverse
But let them fly.
How else to understand their beauty?
Give me a mask, to put next to the others
And then to throw away,
As I desperately run.
With the wall forever behind me.
My hands shake, my pen falls.
What else could I do, if not write on the wall?
Leave my mark up there,
With the other countless ones?
Will anybody notice it?
And if so, what then?