Nothing Does Matter

Nothing matters.
Everything matters.

And that's terrifying
to the one who walks
as matter
contemplating matter.

To the one who walks
in nothing.

Mattering I go,
in nothing.

Where do I arrive
on my walk
and my contemplation

in a world
that's already complete?

What's my role
in a world
that has no need?

Do I end my walk?
My thought?

Do I speak
to a world
that doesn't need words?

About a condition I have,
one
they no doubt share.

To be born
in a world where nothing matters
and everything matters,

everything I do
is never
to be done.

To be born
is to be doomed.

And to die
is to commit completion.

The same completion
that's terrifying
to the one who walks
and contemplates matter

in a world
where nothing matters
and everything matters.

What meaning I find
as I walk,
as I contemplate,

will one day
reach its own end.

Melancholy.

I hold my breath.
Cut myself off.

I no longer choose
between what matters
and what doesn't matter.

Instead, I stop.

Here.

The center
of the intersection.

And I'm found.

Hiding at the cross
between the streets.

I find what's lost
beneath my feet,

between the road
that mattered

and the one
where nothing mattered.

Beauty found me
at the cross.

Beauty.

Found me.

I stopped choosing

and let myself
be chosen.

And that's terrifying.

To be found
as nothing.

And to be seen
for everything
that I am.

That's terrifying
to the one who contemplates
as he walks.

To continue walking

anyway.