The older I grow, the more I realise that many of life's questions do not have definitive answers. More often than not, they're questions that float about in space, and I shoot answers at them with the hopes that I've gotten it right somehow. Certainty is rarely the aim anymore. That's hardly what I often hope to accomplish. Rather, it is the courage amidst uncertainty which I wish to embody. I suppose that's more than I could ever hope to achieve in this lifetime, or the next.
Here it is: the last poem of the Cityscape collection.
I scribble down answers
To non-existent questions,
Gulp them down with water,
Drown myself in peaceful solitude,
Intoxicate myself with pitch black nothingness
That drinks bestow so eagerly.
Like liquid nitrogen,
They smokes up my throat,
And I puff white clouds out again.
The cold winds echo
In my hollow soul,
Asking to be satiated
With fenestrane windows,
Asking for light
The sky cannot give
After receiving my white cloud puff gifts.
Asking for light
Called up from distant glances of memory,
Sparks that have long since died down.
My lungs fill up with water,
And exponentially grow my answers,
But they do not fill my hollow holed soul,
Not when they only ever pass through.
Solid brick will find its way
Down the path I’ve hidden so well
To fill the gaping space
Oblivious to matter.
Perhaps the lingering question
I’ve repressed with metal locks
Shall emerge presently
To coax in the puzzle piece that fits
Once rust licks the strength off the chains.
Perhaps if I’d swallowed more oxygen,
My questions would emerge faster,
But my hands drift to carbonated soda cans
And shrug off the rust that has crusted,
And fortify chain after chain.