Carved in stone
There is a carving I cannot see. A carving I cannot read. A carving I cannot feel.
I preserve what’s on my memory. I reword what I said to see if I gain any new insights. I embellish the words of another to see if they meant something else. There is a sound I cannot place, a view I cannot shield, a meaning I cannot fathom.
Everything ends. The slow march of entropy will veer the very heavens to disorder. No rubble nor dust shall ever frame the canvas of emptiness. All that’s left of life shall be fragments in another’s sentence, a mere punctuation in a sentence imagined, un-penned, and forgotten.
There is paper that will fade to dust, wood that will crumble to mud, and devices that will turn to rust. The erosion that will get to us all.
Do I stand a chance against this disintegration? Can a carving remain what’s left of this meagre strain of thought? Can I convey across time what I think I knew but always misunderstood?
I only stand with stone in hand. The walls around cast no light. The languages I knew fade from my memory. I can only shape lines in the dark, hoping someday someone may connect them together, shape them together, see a picture that I myself never could.
And so this strange idea shall remain forever entombed, the last apple in hand until the hands turn to bone, bone turns to shards, and shards turn to dust. And all that shall remain of this memory, are a few disintegrating lines, carved in stone.
