Shifting the Silence

it’s not the poet who’s the poet, it’s only the reader!

it’s not the poet who’s the poet, it’s only the reader!

But poets are poets.

The world is thick with events, and I dare say, it’s empty. That’s our predicament. I don’t believe that it’s empty only in rare moments.

Actioned by a fever, as usual, always projected, this engine we call life, or existence, that we carry in us and still search for, always at a loss, running,
and running, and not moving ahead, like planet Earth blindly turning in circles, until we both disappear from the screen.

I am not in a hurry to live, am not in a hurry to die; I am just talking to you.

My days are both too long and too short for letting me know what I want to do. So I watch them go by…

…But everything lasts just for a while, probably eternity itself.

Then why am I writing these lines which are not bringing much to the world? It’s one of those things that people do, that’s all. There’s in each of
us the hidden belief that somehow we matter,

It’s dark in here. There are a few distant lights, making us aware that we’re living by night. In silence.