When to be

When I discovered Writing
I knew my destiny had chosen me
To be the fattest book on shelves.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t care
When my identity was becoming
The fattest boy in the playground.

When I lost myself in Fantasy
I realised it was more adventurous
To be a fellowship of shorter volumes
Boxed together in epic covers.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t care
When my mind was splitting up
Into six high-volume voices
Boxed together in a thin skin.

When I met Marquez and Borges
I guessed one can also try
To be a magical garden without
Too many leaves between covers.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t care
When my laziness told me
A hundred pages were long enough
To tell a three-hundred-page story.

When I got giddy on social networks
I was convinced I was twice-born
To be dramatic, daily wall scribbles
That people caught a glimpse of
On their way to Zombieland.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t care
When my life had twists and cliffhangers
Every day, a nausea building in me,
Till I was just sick of myself.

When I sit in silence now
I understand that life is nothing
But moments arising on their own,
To be awake to and be aware of.
Maybe that’s why I don’t care
When my daemons compose poetry
In daydreaming unawareness,
But never beyond a single page.

Now, my writing is shrinking
Faster than my ambitions are.
Maybe that’s why I should care.