I grew melancholic
over the idea of broken wings,
until I believed that one can in fact draw in the sky.
Then I had to reconcile the absolute with the relative,
the irrevocable with the volatile,
fact with chance.
And if all that bear a name are mere conventions,
isn’t this diffuse enough to be charged as absolute?
And what if the irrevocable has multiple forms,
and what if facts are nothing more than what we chanced upon
within a sea of lots we claimed nonexistent?

I grew fearful
over the idea of one forlorn prospect
within a gigantic horde of ugly and comparable identical ones;
of a David who juxtaposes his romantic part
against a realistic Goliath.
But I believed in the gargantuan of the world
and that made me small.
Small, tiny, like a virus.
But it is the small roads that have the fewer tolls
and turnpikes;
and when I was myself the grain
I learned that we sift out prospects from our antigens,
and that finding a needle in a haystack is simple:
it only takes a lighter’s spark.

P.S. For now I hide; like then, like still.