Time of confusion
If a tenth of the time I spend thinking of death
I spent thinking of life, I would be full of life.
If I thought to myself how little eternity means
and believed it,
I could live eternity every moment.
And I wouldn’t have to write like a wailing infant,
nor pretend to be weak because weakness was fun.
This damn sickness of having to need “perfection”
or prettiness because nothing matters
and everything changes
and everything dies
would no longer infect me
and I could live like someone in 18th-century Vienna
when the most unpleasant thing was horseshit on the street.
Just to not wonder why I so long for eternity and fullness
and have been birthmarked with this senseless yearning
for something outside the bounds of sense.