I wrote the following poem when I was immersed in the machine, without focus for my creativity, without any goals for my life. These days I feel as if an entirely different white noise is sparking inside my head; it is a thousand-plus different ideas that are screaming to be put to pen: to poem, to story, to essay, to book. Whereas before it felt as all confusion, now it seems more as a fire, pulsing and spitting bits of passion. It's torturous to try to separate one thought from the next, one idea from another, but I need to try to get it down on paper, bit by bit, before I wake up one day like the old artist in O Henry's "The Last Leaf" with only an empty canvas to represent his life's work.
The space beyond my eyeballs
is fraught with random noise.
My daily trip to work,
plodding jobs,
endless encounters,
and discussions.
The end is not in reach.
The bang that began it all,
left an explosion of matter and light.
Is the Universe expanding,
or is it all just in my head?
The noise that clouds my sight,
the buzz that fills my ears.
Is there any reason to it all,
the white noise that is my life?
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