Can We Know Reality? + My First Poem, With Irony

Yes. I believe there is a reality. I believe there is truth. I believe we are capable of knowing what it is. I believe it is still yet undiscovered. I think some people are pretty close. I think I'm pretty far. But I think that's the only way.

Since when did I become so inarticulate? I was a poet once, and a writer, believe it or not. I had a book to write, once. Twice, actually. I had pages of poetry, about love, about pain, about ennui, about night, about my life... I had essays. Pages of prose about... well, you name it, I wrote about it. I used to be prolific. Quality writing, too, insightful. Incisive. Cut to the core of the very essence of life itself. The very profundity of it all. And in one brash night, I erased it. I deleted it all, I cut it loose into the nether regions of cyberspace. Lost on a hard drive somewhere in Kansas. Gone, effectively, forever.

What a mistake. That was my core, my foundation. That base, that anchor allowed me to move forward and farther out into the metaphysics of writing. Now I've lost all that, and must begin anew. I must begin from the beginning again. I am no longer a poet. I have no poetry to show. I am no longer a writer. I have no writing to show. I am nothing. I am just another random guy posting on a random blog. Oh, how that kills me. I have truly had a very hard fall indeed. Should I even attempt to begin again? How could I create again? Recreate from nothing? Could God erase everything and create another Universe exactly like this one, following the exact same line of history through all time? Ending with me, here, tonight, with the exact same thoughts and feelings as I do now? That is what it would take for me to want to start again.

Fuck it.

My First Poem

We've been here before, you and I;
like perfect strangers in the night,
chancing to meet in the dark dreams -
or the waking nightmares - of our minds.
There nary be a mist without my shadow,
following the gloomy corners, the mellows,
the silences and the glances. I follow,
I follow my own shadow, and the mist
in my eyes, that fogs my third eye blind.
But here we are - again - at last - once -
for another - like next time - like last time,
Indeed, here we are. Your voice like golden,
molten notes, stretched out as thin as ice,
ice that I lightly tread on, lightly step on,
and fall through...
Arms reaching out for Heaven,
Arms reaching out for Helen,
Arms reaching out for anything to save my life...

And grabbing nothing but air.