Somewhere inside me,
there’s a heart that keeps fighting,
and with someone beside me, there’s
a chance to unbind it, still.
On the horizon,
there’s a sight quite abnormal:
there in the distance, there’s
the hope we can hope again.
But I know that my mind is
a place of connivance,
in which ‘kindred spirits’
is an act of survival.
Voices that echo
in the
Silence, they settle
like worms through the
substrate that
creates my reality.
In that delusion,
I wait in confusion.
Until that
Great Silence breaks,
I will wait on unsteady ground.
Everything inside me says that
there’s a signal,
despite the absence of a method
of transmittal.
Your ontology, constrained by
that which I know.
Is the
Moon still just as bright
without the
Sun’s glow?
Somewhere
in the darkness,
is someone else there,
or am I alone, now?
Infinite void,
marred by ancient cosmos.
It reflects back to me
emptiness inside of my soul
‘til I have
something that can
hold me in stasis.
But is it objective truth or is it
anomaly?
The more I look for patterns, the
more that I’ll see.
Solipsistic eclipses on
the corona–
have I simply stared so long it’s
pareidolia?
In this
Great Silence,
awaiting your guidance,
are you really near me?
Can anyone hear me, or
is it all empathic?
Just misreading static?
Or am I attuned to
what the world is immune to?
For there is no reason to feel life
where there is none.
But if there is one,
then I’m not alone. For now,
can I sustain my faith in
Schröedinger’s Other?
The empirics of emergent essence
remain unknown;
unfalsifiable beliefs, my
only console.
The untried and lonely
quale of
your
noema
found its way into my heart,
into my schema.
There is no more
question,
I have heard my
own
Great Sound.
