What will be left when I have dreamt all of my dreams? When I have made all the journeys? When I have gone down all of the roads that I have imagined? When I have lost all that I have had and have gained all that I may?
What remains when all of the important distractions have been removed, when my core is exposed and I can no longer be entertained? Who will love me when I have vanished? When my assets are gone? When My savings are gone? When my work is gone? When my poetry has abandoned me for another lover?
Who will love me without a stone over where I sleep? What will I become when I dissolve into the sea? When the sea contracts into the atom and the atom contracts into existence? Who will love me when those who touched me are gone? What will I be without love? Without acknowledgement?
How will I be bored when the mundane becomes meaningful? How can I be meaningful if I cannot create meaning? When no becomes yes, when discerning has been transformed into consumption, how will I have meaning? How will I have taste?
If I cannot have taste, what will happen to flavour? I have been addicted to flavour so long, I have been addicted to the need to be full – and the only thing that beats being full is being full deliciously. This applies to everything – life should be fulfilling and ecstatically delicious.
If I am not full, am I not empty?
If I am not sated, do I not yearn?
If I am not creating, am I not stagnating?
If I am not fucking, am I not masturbating?
If my hole has not contracted, is it not expanding?
If. If. If.
If I am not dead, am I not alive? And if I am not dying, am I not being being born?
Are we in a perpetual yin and yang, this and that, then and now, them and us, you and me? Yes and no?
I know and I do not know.
the small fist of a newborn clenches and releases, it’s puffy fat little fingers expressing a pure need for belonging, for nurturing, for the breast.