What’s small, is small
what’s big, is big
and all that’s in-between
is also, either small, or big
never both

But isn’t it strange?
for a louse that strolls our head
the scalp kisses the horizon
whilst for us, each brow is arched
and the earth we travel, is flat
but not for Atlas, which from above
see’s that it is curved, while his shoulders
carry the infinite plane that is, ironically
a celestial sphere
which pushes this conundrum
all the way up to god
and possibly beyond

And all things are small
and all things are big
always both thing
never in-between

Thus, we should strive to remember
when the world is heavy on our shoulders
how small, it really is
and how the universe is hidden
in the tiniest of details

And then there’s us, amidst
duality of no, and every, thing
a cusp
of zero, and infinity

The world is speckled
pairs and pairs of soulmates
those torn from one another
even before they first encountered

Some are separated by a single step
others share daylight
only when the sun rise or set
yet each one calls the other
and their lament is carried on
a somber song
thickening the air
rising, falling, interfering
diluted and again reformed
into a cacophony of desperation
like Cicadas bustling at dusk
like flocks of birds that greet the dawn

Poor them
wondering to and fro
in this pining thicket
searching for a common song
blinded by longing
lying awake at night
aching the insulating gap
encompassed by the constant murmur
singing
singing

I sometimes ponder
of a phone call that will never be
of silence stretching between two receivers
of a heavy sigh that exhales
years’ worth of air caged in the lungs

Yes, I’m still here
How have you been?
How is life?
How many laugh-lines did the corner of your eye accumulated?
How many past mistakes still drag around your tongue?
How many days since than have drained onto your windowsill?
How many nights were spent sleeping at the foot open front-gates?

Am I as you remember?
Are we where you imagined us to be
back then, some years ago
when both our paths diverged
when all we left behind
was dust and a sense of waste,
and a pair of phantom us, gazing onward
that shared the same time and space

Yes, I am here, but different
which may describe you too
no wonder, since passing time
kept kneading us like clay
and all our efforts to keep straight
were all for naught, we are astray

But
sometimes I still ponder
if thing did not transpire
if times unraveled could be wound up
and knotted, at that single point
then moving forward, just maybe
both of us were different now
but different altogether

We the people
are a Sisyphean collective
our punishment: progressing humanity

With fiery eyes  and frothing mouth
we charge towards  its surfaces
bashing those with scrawny shoulders
ricochet like sparks from flint
watch as we fall back
how it moves a fraction of a hair length
knowing that
if all our efforts were combined
surely, humanity would’ve accelerated

But we the people
are a democratic anarchy
each one to their own

Each thrusts towards their own direction
each blow is counterbalanced by another
as we foam like sea surf on a shoal
crushing from all sides
and our humanity
crawls in place amongst us

For we, the people
are a paradox of will
the driving, and the stalling force

Insignificantly small, with significant resistance
the viscous drag that ebbs and flows
a choreography of chaos and confusion
we are so many
so many more

And humanity is singular
a monument to our failures
its minuscule fluctuations
a testament of battles fought
but from a far, and from way forward
it is but a speck of dust
which, ever silent, floats
throughout the cosmos

The truth is
There’s always dishes to do
a floor to mop up
a phone call to make
food to cook
fences to paint
people to see
about a dog, about a cat

About a life
you never own up to
because of all the little hurdles
all the small achievements
you rake in your confined Zen garden
neatly piling skipping stones
as if boulders don’t exist outside
as if there’s no mountains that require scaling
as if the big issues
Who you are? Why you are? When will you be?
are not looming over in the distance
casting shadow in the twilight of your days

The truth is
all these notches on your belt
are the sum effort of your laying lows
the trophies for your standing stills
the “what if”s you stifle into the pillow
because you know the odds
never scale with the effort

Truth is
minimal struggle dictates the average
but you decide on the endeavor
blessed are the meek
for they shall inherit the barrens