The Philosophical Machine

If I keep picking

at these loose threads,

will I unravel the world?

I keep thinking,

“What good’s a writer,

if he doesn’t capture the words?”

 

Pulling at the worn fringes

of reality,

of sanity;

it all threatens to come apart on its own,

so why try saving anything?

Can I pull the universe apart,

string by string,

thread by thread

and weave it into something else?

I don’t think I have the skill for that.

 

They’re saying that it’s all a simulation,

so I shouldn’t worry so,

but what if I’m

just a bad line of code?

What if there’s some malware

lurking in the nodes?

Am I just supposed to go about my life,

because you told me so?

Am I playing the game,

or am I a function of the system?

Am I a driver,

or am I driven,

by immortal, psychic vision?

If I can crack the BIOS,

can I reprogram myself,

or do I leave that to an update

that will load itself?

 

The impossible weave,

the philosophical machine.

I’m essentially a dream,

in the mind of someone else.

I’m a ghost,

slowly forgetting

how life felt.

I’m praying,

but I know

I’ll change it myself.

 

Peeling back the veil,

picking at that fraying edge,

looking for the mind behind it;

stepping off the Founder’s Ledge.

Beyond what is known to those

who still draw breath into their chests;

no one comes back to speak of death.

 

There are sharks in the waters

of the Infinity Pool,

but the rules are sometimes made

to be broken a time or two.

If I play along the faded edge of creation,

are there more answers to be found,

then on the day I meet obliteration

and know the embrace of the ground?


Wouldn’t I like to know, now?

 

HG – 2016

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