Oblivion (slam Poetry)

Oblivion

What is a memory? If not a mere grainy image, captured in the heat of the moment and slowly disintegrating, what is it? What is a life if not a temporary fix - you are born out of your control and forced to make something of yourself in a world that would never care, much less notice, if you had never existed. Is it all for nothing? Is it not all in vain that you desperately try to be worth something, to be important? Go ahead, write a book. Write a whole library. Is it of any consequence? Soon enough, you will be long gone and the meaning and the feeling behind every book, every single word that you wrote out painstakingly will disintegrate with you. Now they are just pages rotting with you, for no one, no one really remembers you, though they continue to fill their small minds with the lifeless shapes pressed in ink onto the paper you worked so hard at, to no avail. The words mean nothing in the end, not to a feeble, decaying human mind. You meant nothing.

Buy a property. Buy the largest expanse of land you can find and build the most elaborate house you can imagine on it. But what is it? What can you really imagine that will amount to anything? You hold everything so dear. Every possession, every precious dollar that you thought would get you somewhere in life is worthless. You are a worthless creature, a greedy savage. You cannot keep anything forever, not in the state you are in - in the state we all are in. The human race is ill and dying every second we fool ourselves into believing we are alive. Pointless, rushing about our own minds to try to set us off track, try to forget what will inevitably befall us. Oblivion. The shadows of death twisting closer every moment we subconsciously inch away into denial, ready to wind themselves around our minds and constrict us, sending us insane before snuffing out our life force completely, another discarded being to be cleaned up and forgotten. Another day.

You are a window - old enough to see time itself and wise by your standards but with time comes frailty and you are cracked with age, and the cracks splinter out in a spider’s web of faults and flaws you cannot fix because it is inevitable, and the harder you try to cover them up the more obvious they become and you are useless and an inconvenience now for no one can see through you anymore and you sit there, cold, and insignificant, until you are replaced with a new window, one that is yet to grow old and cracked just like you did. The same fate awaits all who sit in your place for millennia to come, each one smashed in different ways, either from old age or from the mere force of the brutality and cruelty of society - words like a fist like a hammer splintering them into myriads of shards and scattering them on the floor in a heap to be swept up and thrown away like the worthless, fragile, pathetic rubbish they are.

You could reinvent time if you had it, but then, what more would you be inventing than just another means with which to be forgotten - consumed by your own feeble creation as it inevitably catches up with you and erases you swiftly and you become little more than the dust that coats the lost memories of others long before you, holed up forever under the skin of the universe because you, and this, all of this,

never


really


mattered?

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