really, what does it matter,
in the end?

I manage to move someone,
anywhere; a stranger connected
through experience, emotion, humanity;
so what?

If I manage someday
to capture in words
some universal truth, brilliant
and useless,
what then?

The world doesn't just suddenly
realign itself to a new track -
a better, brighter one -
because of one small person's scribblings.
Stronger words than mine
have faded before,
falling comets in growing darkness.

Yes, perhaps I'll manage
to reach a few: one in a million, maybe,
ten thousand, flattery - five hundred.
Eyes will skim the pages,
mouths breathe "Ah! Why, yes, of course!
Here is truth!" but still
they will close the book,
set it aside,
eat their evening meal and go to sleep,
and wake the same, to a life
unchanged and unchanging.

My words are eventually nothing,
stale lines of ink and graphite
on crumpled pages in a swollen landfill.

Why, then, do I bother to write?

Because I can.
Because I want to.

Because I must.

05/02/2005

Author's Note: More 3am musings. When it comes down to it, I guess I just like writing for its own sake. And once in awhile someone else likes what I write, and that's just a good feeling.

Posted on 05/02/2005
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