The Demography Of Blur

The older I get,

the blurrier the lines become

between meaning

and the absence of it.

I keep running against time,

thin on patience,

starved of hope,

chasing answers like oases, 

and yet, mirages

are all I ever find.

Once the ground beneath you

shifts from the spine of concrete

to the intestines of reptilian sand,

it becomes impossible to tell

if there was ever a line at all,

if there was ever

a here and a there,

an ours and a theirs.

Meanwhile, the ones who found meaning,

the ones who drew the lines,

stand tall in pride,

jaws locked in self-righteousness.

They look at me 

half-confused,

half-bewildered, 

wondering if I am

a raging lunatic,

or a nuisance of pointless existence.

And I look right back 

straight into their eyes,

like an obstinate reflection in the mirror.

When opposite poles start looking alike,

how do you tell where the equator is, 

or if there ever was one?