From the Forever Ignorant

The canopy of distant memories
Glows with each passing footstep
But fades with every delicate footprint
Through the thresholds of tear-laced breaths
And the scattered melodies of laughter

I read the anthology of my past
Filed behind my mind
In selective chronological order
When the minutes drag beyond structured time.
This is what they tell me tonight.

My fingerprint is smeared on all the seconds
My heart chose to beat.
I fear existence within physicality
That functions tragically on a linear sequence
And the inevitable translation of mind into physical form.
Reversibility is a luxury I will never be able to afford.

If somehow I can transcend this sequence
My self may scatter into the million incoherent fragments
It longs to be
And never decide to be my self again.
I am frustrated by the process of structuring
Yet fear straying from it.

If Nietzsche is right,
The self is simply my illusion
And your interpretation
Existence is nothing but a figment of our imagination.
These words, then, are inaudible whispers
From a wandering ghost
Who is sometimes acknowledged only because
She is mistaken for the cold morning breeze
And the midnight chill.