I wonder if it is life that is moving
Through my stationery body
Or is it me stumbling and bumbling
Like a drunk, through a life that is still
And unmoving with every decision
As meaningless as any other?
Or are we like a photograph swept across
Geographies and histories by the currents
Of memories, longing for a touchdown
Despising the buffeting and the uncertainties
Not wishing to be locked-up in the album of eternity
For we love whatever little we see from our precarious position?
Or are we mere grammatical symbols
Of the language that the Gods speak?
We are questions, exclamations, pauses
And even smart sentences
Or intelligent snippets of some celestial chat.
Hope the Gods record their conversations!
12 February 2013