Maybe our certain foreknowledge of our own demise is the reason
All our stories come to ends even though the universe seems bent
On relentless continuity. Nobody gets to die together in the true apocalypse,
To judge from how everything began, begins from the process of fresh endings,
And personal departures, much as personal arrivals, even when they look abrupt
From the outside, are forever very much in medias res from the inside. I thought,
What if things are exactly as they seem? Everything else goes on
After each body collapses, each personality vanishes, each
Memory evaporates. Memory goes nowhere, while new memories form
Among the living who will collapse in their time, memories gone from them.
There was never any other way the cosmos was except as we've found it,
Despite our gift for imagining it otherwise, which is part of it:
Nothing ventured, everything lost; everything ventured, everything lost.
Loss is nothing. It happens to have happened this sort of way. Is is what was.
If things are exactly as they seem, there will be someone left to read this, to be
Rightly angry with me. And if things are not exactly as they seem, then it seems
There's no clue how things really are, nor whether things were ever anyone, at all.
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