Is the truth really just a converse of multiple currents segregated to individual layers confining their knowledge to the dimensions of their depths, past which, to insiders, nothing can be known?

Is the consensus about you that you depend on for moving forward from your demise, truly your world’s most reduced belief about you, or was its discovery merely the point when you stopped looking for that answer, because the process was too great for you to endure it for any longer?

Was the consensus statement a reduction of its own variances to begin with, or was the rapp on you really just a polite fiction held up by its own obfuscated panoply of hyper-compatible incentives?

You had wondered after you fell down if the hand that came to help you rise again, had feared the most that no one would have done the same for him, or that for him what you were facing could even happen.

It really doesn’t matter why he came to help you rise.

The things we wonder but can never know must have to hinge on never knowing quite sure how good the world is, because we doubt that in ourselves.

Artwork by Luke Meyer

Poem by Luke Meyer