PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I don’t remember the day I was born. None of us do, science concludes, except for the select few that happen to hold such a phenomenon as being true. This is how I shall begin my story, not by claiming any clear knowledge about something, but rather with the lack of certainty thereof. It all inspires a farfetched tinge of philosophy: Was I really born out the womb like we observe to occur as fact, or is our field of observation, with its vast limitations, merely some illusory old phantom that nestles itself and hides in the stars beyond, unable to be grasped? I very well could have fluttered down from those heavens, with white wings made from cloudy stuff, and plopped my bare feet upon the soft moss of ancient origin—like a surreal and lovely skydiver landing, or an alien who discovers its destiny on earth. But I think the Seraphim speculation is fitting enough.

Alas, perhaps all of that is quite wrong, but it would surely make a nice church song. Nothing should ever be entirely discounted though. With infinite possibilities regarding the nature of who we are and all that babble there never appears to be an absolute answer. It feels a conscious coma we live, perpetuating perception in the crazy riddle of existence. The key is kept away from mortal hands. We are to stay caged in this creation, roaring incessantly like agitated tigers fed with the meat of paradox straight from Father's farm. It gets easier and easier not to be alarmed by dread delusion, to accept the constant state of turmoil and confusion, whilst the sonorous sequence of faith sheds its reverent grace. The stage is yet set, and it is best not to fret and sweat over.