queries

Thinking began when we opened our eyes

It is a thing we are subconciously thinking of now

We must do it in order to survive

Considering what might not have begun if we didn't know about it

It is ruled only by our hearts' desires

And the weight our spirits and souls dare to care for.

We must lay ourselves, tender and raw

Outside for the sunshine to baptise.

Lest we don't enjoy our lives

And are left thinking about all that could have been.

A waste, if the extistential dread has anything to comment on the thought

Which it always will, because we inevitably let it inside us

And it gnaws away at our ideas and dreams

Until we remain seated

Watching our photographs curl and hide themselves

And their subjects return to the unprotected atmospheres of the great outer lands

Forever.