STRANGE

Strange that with all there is to see,
with continual movements,
with sounds which never cease,
with emotions that flow through
the atmosphere like wandering spirits;

Strange that with skin that feels incessantly,

with life all around,
with the air that blows for everyone,
even for those who are suffocating;

Strange that with people still creating,

not just life but stories and paintings and music,
with death permeating the world,
with eyes lurking around to see what everyone else sees,
and possibly something unseen,

That so few let go…

but persistently
      move,
            hear,
                  feel,
                       touch,
                  breathe,
             create,
       and search…

while the heart tries to find a moment of silence,

while the body pushes its way to a point of stillness,
and the mind, facing complacency,
stands at the edge of solitude.