I also went after the goal of life
where it was nowhere in sight
and got myself lost.
And yet, by gaining the same track
which had zoomed me and dropped me back
to another point in the space-time fabric,
I finally realised that all my non-finding
in a really strange coincidence,
now pointed down to the path
I had long been tracing by blind chance.
I met another insane who would swear he was Napoleon.
He believed that his ultimate design in life
was to cross the imaginary ocean stretches
which would retrieve him from his inner island.
But the poor devil would always go missing
before the little pissing pond bridge.
If he passed away without much trespassing,
he did not fail to assign a meaning,
lame as it was, to his dim existence,
and so clear his appearance.
As in his case, meanings to our living do not locate outside of us.
Rich or barren, they are stories we keep telling
to our private believing.
Their significance does not exactly belong
to the realm of meanings,
but to the will to have a meaning.
As in all narration, they convey more of artifact
than just feigned fact, and so their tallest truth
falls by definition short
of our craziest ambitions.
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