Blur

A blur.

A gust of wind.

Dusts collected from afar.

These are the proof of change.

A collection of things

Swept up and transferred from

Across the seas,

Brought here just for me.

There's no way to know

What stories might be held inside

These lonely grains of dust,

Skin cells shed from the once loved

Now forgotten.

If there was a way to scan these pieces,

To extract the moments

Imprinted on folds of skin

By stress and experience,

Perhaps we'd notice and appreciate

History as it passes through our fingers.

Until then,

We build artificial thinkers

To imitate the soul.

Carbon copies of carbon.

Imitation of the thinking

Of uncritical thinking,

A guide to build a system

To bring the death of thinking.

A social network of artifice

Became capable of the unthinkable?

Huh...

Who would have thought.