Thursday, January 1, 2015

The Darkness

We go through life
As though we understand
What’s happening around us
When what is true
Is that we do not grasp
A single thing for what it is.

Ours is an illusory existence,
A shifting construct
Premised on perceptions
That at best just skip
Across the shifting surface
Of reality.

This desk, this chair,
The floor on which they rest,
The hand with which I write,
All seem so solid to me
But are mostly vacant space
Organized in shapes.

You, my lifelong friend
Whom I think I know so well,
Are in fact a mystery
That I will never plumb
As I am still a mystery
Even to myself.

Yet this is how we live,
Guessing our way,
Praying we can manage
To make it through the day
Without a momentary glimpse
Into the darkness.

©2014 John I. Blair

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