Parallax Error

Do ends exist because beginnings are compulsory,

or are beginnings just mathematical errors put to reason,

the perfect excuse

of an inevitable collapse?

Does the sun really rise in the east

and set in the west,

or is that just civilisation

demanding obedience

from a rock hurtling through nothing

so we don’t panic before breakfast?

Is life the truth of death,

or is death the only honest thing here

and life its timeless distraction;

a folklore we've told ourselves 

to keep the nightmares at an arm's length and sleep at a finger's,

because the silence in the darkness terrifies us?

Maybe it’s neither.

Maybe we’re just rabid philosophers,

foam at the mouth, faith in hand,

arguing over truths

that were never addressed to us.

Debating existence

like squatters in a house

we don’t own,

won’t inherit,

and will be evicted from,

without a word ever being uttered.

Maybe what actually matters

isn’t beginnings or ends,

not suns or directions,

not heaven, hell, or historical accuracy —

but what becomes of you

while you’re busy intellectualising extinction.

Who you sell yourself to.

What you learn to excuse.

How comfortably you rot.

Everything else, 

truth, meaning, destiny, god, freedom, 

is parallax error:

the lie birthed

when you mistake motion

for progress,

and proximity

for understanding.

Stand far enough away

from yourself

and suddenly

nothing you believed

was facing forward.