It's all continuous
One moment to the infinitely small next, and that next to an even smaller one thereafter,
until each moment is so unsustainable that it seems like nothing
That's all we are though--moving, sacks of water, grappling our tired hands to our breaths, counting each one to affirm that there's something
Realizing there won't be enough to count
so you dismount your horse
You cannot conceive of any future course that would be enjoyable taking,
Since each extends eternally in some direction
and you'd never be able to explore any given path.
They say that ignorance is bliss
But I've learned that bliss isn't necessarily out of ignorance
I've learned to be suspicious of people giving me their shirts when they don't have one of their own
I once called water ‘life joice' with beautiful people around me
They always tell you to keep your dreams alive--
alive since it implies some sort of sustenance on the part of the dreamer,
an act which forever lingers and never stops, an act which pushes the dream to the green side of the not-so-much binary line.
It's foggy, it's unclear, it's far too convoluted to measure--for many with their sticks in units of hedonistic pleasure—
But I fill my dreams up with water like a balloon
hoping to soon see them expand
I need to form them with my two hands
I need to poke them with my finger
I need to create and disfigure
I need to see the new shapes the balloon can make
I need to work them so much that they inevitably pop and disband,
I need to land
I need to go to a place where my vaporized dreams feed the plants around me
