How strange the human frailty for numbers.
Daunted by the multifarious world,
We fake some measure of knowledge and control
By naming, labelling, counting;
By parcelling out time
We deny dread infinity.
Counting somehow comforts us:
Counting the books on our shelves,
Counting the days of our lives,
Counting the loves we have lost.
The uncountable dismays, yet fascinates:
The books we don't have,
The days still to live,
The love yet to come.
This is a 'sketch' only. I just wrote it in a couple of minutes flat, to meet the need for some sort of commemoration of the fact that this is Post No. 500 here on Froogville. There might be the germ of something worthwhile in here.
Anyway, thanks for reading (and for commenting, those few of you that do). How many more posts will there be? Who knows? I am pondering giving up this blogging malarkey, since it is way too time-consuming - and I've never really felt that it is 'me'. Then again, I'm probably hopelessly addicted by now....
4 comments:
wow. this reminds me why I started reading your stuff.
thank you for sharing. I hope you don't stop.
This sort of dwarfs my own post this morning about my 100th post. :D
Congrats! Five hundred is impressive.
I find the numbers rather unnerving.
I am more concerned about how much of it might actually have been worth reading.
I'm less amazed by the numbers and more focused on the poem.
whether or not it was all worth reading doesn't matter so much as finding gems that are worth remembering amidst it all.
Post a Comment