April the 1st


I read somewhere
that time is a trick
not at all linear
or orderly
like soldiers would be
in a march-past,
but is rather like a sheaf
of pages piled up on top
of each other
our tomorrows stacked
on our yesterdays
like heavy burdens
of possibilities.

I dived into that buried pile,
assumedly accessible,
and surfaced on the page
of an yesteryear me,
all blush and innocence,
with a heart that had not yet
learned to distrust,
whose smile still seeped
into lucid eyes
and who is clueless
about how to shape
possibility into reality.

What do I tell
this past version of me?

I then wonder
of all the possible futures
I could have had
why I choose the page
I am now on
and if I had chosen differently
would I be in another sheaf?

or did I even have a choice?

Is it time that tricked me
or is it life?

I stand outside
and gaze at the stars
sliding slowly across the sky
and time trips me up again.

The light that I see
is not the star
but the light that left it
so many light years ago
reaching me now
a ghost, nothing else,
a faded celebrity,
a beautiful echo
that chose to fall
on today’s page.

And then,
everything shifts
and dissolves
like illusionary shadows.
Time is nothing but this moment
and life is happening nowhere
but in this moment.

And April the 1st
is just a label.