It is oddly liberating when you know how little you really know. And that you can’t even begin to measure the magnitude of your ignorance.
The universe is a composite of finite knowledge. We uncover a few jagged slivers and without any context, without the connectors to infinity, we presume an understanding, begging for a validation of our own presence.
No wonder then, that we seek comfort in believing that someone, somewhere knows everything, and can fix everything we break, or think we have broken.
If that’s true, then those things were meant to be broken, meant to look like they need to be fixed.
I imagine poems Marcus, already written. Invisible. And we peel back words, in random, haphazard order, trying to elicit a meaning, any meaning, fill in the blanks, punctuate wildly, hoping that to someone, somewhere that one poem has already made complete sense.
And the words behind the words?
on the chequerboard
of sunshine and shade
the squirrel is pawn, is king