One hundred trillion years
A familiar disorientation to imagine the future
But what of the past
Also infinite but unchangeable
A familiar disorientation to regret
Mostly regret to what isn’t mine
As if I could somehow fix things
The present, an anchor
Every moment drags by
As if it were tearing through the ocean floor
We can’t begin to grasp
Such real limitations
A familiar disorientation
Acting like we can be outside the present
Can the physical be a gift?
A living, breathing stark contrast
To the vain pursuit of infinity?
I am free to know myself now
My responsibility is who I am.
I am limited
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The knowing of the not-knowing I run into more and more the deeper I go - to me, so well traced here in your poem - and how the not-knowing is ultimately a gift and a freedom. Thanks, Jimmy. :)