Just when I think I have it in hand,
I want to step out in front of a bus.
Will the distance between me and happiness
be a graph that never reaches zero?
The denominator of the fraction growing larger and larger,
so that I can not touch it even though we are a breath apart?
The closer I come, the further away I get?
The destination is the same for all of us.
We all die in the end, Shams.
There is nothing to worry about
succeed, fail, help, harm.
We all die. We all die in the end.
I inhaled a rose,
before it shed its petals,
and I thought to myself,
I care far too much about what the end will be,
I need to know how it will end, lest I worry about the end the whole journey.
The journey is the joyful part, the journey is why we
pick our destination.
We want the journey.
This is a lame poem, Shams. I might have outdone myself this time.
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