If we mourned our birth, would we smile
at our funeral?
Look at us
standing in front of the blackboard,
diligently noting all the knick-knacks
that make up our daily routine.
Nothing but chalk dust.
We can’t even order ourselves some rain,
let alone find someone really nice
to listen to La Vie en Rose—no wonder
the soufflé is too soggy tonight.
If we mourned our birth, would we break
through the shrill screech of chalk?
I have heard about one-time dreamers who did not belong anywhere.
Sometimes I wonder if I am such a person myself. When I was born,
the authors I read were already long dead, some even before the first
road to Rome was built. The same applies to films, with the exception
of Roman roads, of course. I even sang “La Vie en Rose” with Satch
on rainy nights while practising the art of desynonymizing in the world
of appearances. And after all these years, I am fond of… Well, I actually
cannot think of anything at the moment, though I am sure there must be
something. But I have learned one thing: Some destinations are meant
to go there; some are only for changing planes.
hidden pilcrow 