The Soul of a Man

I’m not indifferent

I’m yet to recognize, who am I

I’m nothing, a dimensionless creature

Convoluted, and of a shapless nature

3, 5 or 75

What does a number do ?

It occupies a place in the non-existant existence

Helpless, the mind tries to give itself meaning

The soul is the vessel of meaning

Decartes said ; “I think, therefor I am”

I say …

I observe my meta-thinking, therefor, I exist

For meaning to exist

It has to see itself, meta-meta-meta thinking

The meta-self is boundless, limitless

In its core, there is a jewel

The stuff of life, the divine gift of intellect

We are a way for the cosmos to know itself, Sagan said

I say …

We are the meta-universe

Not central, nor immortal

We just existe in a different realm

The realm of the psyche

The door to the metaphysical

The cliché of the undescribable

What’s your story?

What do you tell yourself at night?

Are you the robot? the artist? the human? Are you nothing?

How sad, and tragic that you’ve never even asked yourself that question …

You asked the wrong questions all along

You got the same pathetic lines of thought

Des idées pauvres ; Des mauvaises réponses

Colorless life. Escape.