Quanta

I try to find myself
Amidst the debris of living
The present is not now
The past is open to conjecture
The future a mere whimsy
A thin cloud composed of remembrance and hope

I know faith and philosophy
That’s not my point

Amidst the clatter of thinking
Emerging notions like stray photons
Almost grasped, almost seen
Only to wink away
Just at the moment of recognition
There still comes something familiar
Some pattern
Some wrinkle of repetition
Just enough to grab a flimsy hold —
As if on reality

Shall I say a thing
Hoping for some connection
Some proof of contingency?

All there is is is

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