THE REMOTE-CONTROLLED LIFE

I think and think—
so many dreams hatch in the skull's warm dark.
But not everything becomes.
If everything became as I imagined,
the unthinkable would have stayed forever unborn—
safe, fragile, perfect in their never-being.

And if dreams never turned real,
if we had to thumb a remote control
just to get through each hour—
tell me, wouldn't that life
be the longest way to die?

Why do I mourn what slipped?
We only lose what we once held.
So tell me—
how do I lose what I never touched?

I am here. I am not.
The word lifetime—
why do I feed it to myself like medicine?

Everything is just breath,
a game of hide-and-seek with silence.
If I must leave while my hand is still writing—
then the real game ends here,
on this ink-wet page,
and everything after is only echo.

Do not bless anyone with long years.
Bless them, instead, with a full stop at the right time—
because the one who speaks the blessing
may watch the blessed one disappear first,
and what is that but a cruel arithmetic?

We came for only two days—
just two, no more.
How much longer do we need
to lose ourselves completely
in the infinite?