Bits of a diminishing din
despite their intention
these patterns drift aimlessly, beginning somewhere unknown then ceasing to be
repetitious, becoming instead a series of fits and stops —
pauses and actions,
moments and timelessness,
floating before, through, and beyond.
Are they ending or just moving out of range,
dissipating or merely being replaced?
Their tragic trajectory from attack to decay
yearns to be collected and preserved,
begging to be caught, like dust in a filter
as if, along with their unique identities within a greater ambience,
they are also whispering pleas to be saved.
At least they are to these ears.
Why follow this urge to collect? What is the point of preservation?
If a tree falls in the woods, should someone record it?
Why bottle up these moments only to have them forgotten without
a guarantee of their rediscovery?
Because there is a chance
to reach across time, to touch someone
you will never meet
and let them know that they are not alone.
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