Momento Mori

We are surrounded by endings.
Finality.
Like this sentence.
Like a good book.
Like life.
And with every ending comes this idea
of purpose.
The ultimate.
The reason.
For that sentence.
That book.
That life.
The masterpiece.

What Alberto Manguel calls,
in A Reader on Reading,
“Final Answers.”
“This paradox [that] haunts authors,”
he says.
For this idea of linearity
seems a trap for creativity –
Creativity, which I deem cosmic,
not bound by the limits of structure.
Why must we force upon such boundlessness
“a culminating work”
and disregard the “dark, rich forest
full of fallen or discarded leaves?” (Manguel)
It intrigues me to think
what significance would be held
of masterpieces
had we not any pieces
to compare it to.

– How would this fragment survive –

had it not the the fragments
surrounding it?
As Manguel reminds us,
“We assume that the bits and pieces
we encounter and collect […]
exist in splendid isolation […]
We forget
the all-encompassing cloud”
and therefore we miss something.

Thoughts cannot be
just one letter.
Artists cannot be
just one work.
Life cannot be
just one defining moment.
Death may be inevitable,
as is every moment
until.

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