i talk to inanimate objects
as the hand is still
like a stone in the mouth.
it goes deeper than an evil
glint in your fathers eye,
you were there as possibility
in the first human,
as a fish,
in the very first single cell
and deeper still.
stardust and void and
everything else.
i get moments where i'm
glad i'm alive.
another day.
not because the days are
particularly special or
noteworthy
but this sudden realization
of how strange and unlikely
it is that i should
exist.
that existence should
exist
and you smile at the
odds
the sublime absurdity of
chance or
purpose.
you catch yourself looking
at things realizing how strange
they are.
that we exist in this universe,
that books exist, trees, cars,
flowers, people, coffee cups,
toe nail clippers,
atoms, stars, planets.
that there is anything there to
be seen or to see at all.
everything contained in it and
every existing thing
of which
you are
one.
do coffee mugs feel this way?
birds? flowers? toe nail
clippers?
