Many a times I find myself,
In the madness of making meaning,
‘If this happens…’
‘It surely means that…’ I say,
But the correlations and causations,
Of reality
Have their own voices,
That I choose not to hear,
Busy am I madly making meaning,
Not knowing that it causes more
Pain than peace,
To me.
Upon that ‘if’ I choose to stand,
Like a compass of certainty,
Hoping with fear,
About that
Meaningless outcome.
Like a fool I create,
My own map of meaning.
Without moving to refine
The details I have,
Missed.
It is within me,
To ignore the description of those details,
Malingering in these moments,
For some show of promise.
A promise
That will not be made,
Within the domain I seek that meaning,
For those correlations and causations,
Will have their own say.
There is a method,
For this madness of making meaning,
And it lies,
With the mechanics of logic.
Worry not,
This is a common phenomenon,
For those who desire,
Their own position through promise.
That moment of meaning,
Will create a trace of memory,
That is mapped,
Upon the character of Man.
‘Merely an inefficiency’,
My Night-Skinned Lord would say.
Naturally,
As He is All,
Correlation, causation, logic and mechanics.
The secret to making meaning,
Lies only in respecting that
Method.
While,
I must say now,
In a morose manner,
The Mistakes
In the making of meaning,
Shall make only…
Madness