Literature entry wk 12
A little poem to counter the morbidity of Tolstoy:
To end is to begin, to begin is to end,
Yet life has no boundaries to which it says,
"Continue".
To continue forever, such a wanton dream,
full of misguided hopes,
sullied by the amibitious mind.
Continue, into death, seems the most sane,
less insane than to cling to life.
Life cannot sustain the soul,
forever and ever,
to sate its thirst for meaning and passion.
Only after does it know.
Only after does it know the meaning of the word,
Life, to live, to exist, to be.
A purpose to continue,
on another plane.
A new dimension, a new reality,
where it's only you.
You in control, you, your own God.
But such a thing seems meagre at best,
the fun is gone, with no one to meet,
a simple existence, your soul alone,
yet fearing the solitude, all alone.
So it would seem to me, the life at best,
is wonderful, colourful, demanding.
So confusing yet so beautiful,
the life I have now,
that no prophet, no priest, no monk can say,
that after this life is the best of best.
I shall have my now, my life,
happy to keep all as it is.
Forever shall come eventually,
for now I shall have my life for it seems,
now is forever, forever, eternity.