Poetry

Melancholy Flower Infinate

Paradox.

Abstraction.

Imperceivable.

Impossible.

Grandiosity.

The raw beyond. These concepts that will never be answered. They lay on those that seek. Is there intention in existence? If there was, how did such to intend come to be? It was intentioned as well, well, what about that which gave it? If not, then why it in the first place? If so, it goes on for infinity. An impossibility. How did things come to be, then? Without this notion, we reach a bottleneck. Time is a paradox; an abstraction. All the gravity in all the black holes, and all the separation across the expanding universe cannot condone it. We were once small and hot, before which we were not. Other space-time have done the same, and all of us have done so and will do so… forever? We haven’t reached the extent of proper perceivable information for that yet, so time will tell. And we will do so by peering ever inward. We can’t go out enough into the grandiose, so we can only do the opposite. Yet there we find abstractions upon abstractions to any order. It breaks us down and leaves us impossibly without structure. This existence we all find ourselves in is so complex, and so alien to what we were made to do: survive, that it will take a long time indeed before anything can be done about it. Until which, a fool like I can wax poetic… about it and all and forevermore.

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