Solipsism is a place
\nwhere ghosts gather,
\nhaving no place else to go,
\ndialogues with oneself
\non, should life matter
\nwith nothing else to know?
\nShould I ask
\nwho I am,
\nor what it is I suffer,
\nthis boat
\ninside my self
\nwith so much cargo?<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t doubt my separateness.
\nHow frightened I am
\nto be alone, or
\nterrified in a crowd,
\nand if this is what life is,
\nhow can life matter?
\nOr,
\nHow can I make life matter?
\nOr,
\nHow can I make my life matter?
\nOr,
\nOf all the faces that I\u2019ve seen,
\nwhich one is my own?<\/p>\n
Who collects the clouds?
\nRecords the voices?
\nCreates pictures for museum walls?
\nComposes the remarkable
\nin notes and words?
\nHow things are forged
\nand played?
\nAnd who shifts
\nthrough the baggage
\nwhen we\u2019re gone,
\nand says,
\nthis life mattered
\nin the scheme of things,
\nand brought forward,
\nmust be called,
\nwonderful by name.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Solipsism is a place where ghosts gather, having no place else to go, dialogues with oneself on, should life matter with nothing else to know?…<\/p>\n