The pseudo death

A little death in my soul

The mysteries of the blackness

Are opening up to me

A sky unfolding

 

Empty

 

So I shiver and moan

Holding up hand

To block out the city glare

But it pours through my fingers

 

Hopeless

 

One cannot simply taste the other side

Without risk

And the darkness I plunge into

Is only shallow

A sleep of necessity

A pseudo death of little levity

No Tabula Rasa

No tabula rasa

From womb to breast

Worry or silent quietude

Special trick?

Genetic sleight of hand?

We are the fool audience

Wide eyed

Wildly applauding

Unseen force

Even may it only be a cog

 

Have we only just come

From the other shore

Of a longer, shorter, sweeter, or more bitter

Force of life?

The universe opening to us

And we beg it to supply

The answer we so ardently seek

 

No tabula rasa

The crowd falls into a hush

And we know not what face we look upon

Gods?

Goddesses?

Ours?

We know only

That we live

 

Explanation: If there is no tabula rasa (which I firmly believe is the case), where do our personalities and proclivities originate? Nurture only plays a limited role in the womb. It doesn’t seem plausible that it could make one child simply impatient from the second they are born, and another as calm as a summer lake. Perhaps these things are expressed in our genes. Perhaps we have lived a life before this one.

What would it even mean if these sort of things were simply an expression of genes?

What do you think?