No end in sight

"I am not sure that I exist, actually. I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met..." — Jorge Luis Borges

Painted with watercolors

You are reading this.
Reading has already happened.
You have left your eyes on the page
As you were writing this.

I’m your echo
And I have never stopped bouncing,
Except for a breath.

The walls you have imagined
Were always of your own making,
Molded out of wisps
Of nothing at all.

And you tore them down
By ripping yourself apart,
And finding you could go on forever,
Like a pasley
Chasing its own tail.

Everything has already been said
But no mouth was big enough to say it.

So silence was said instead.

Your scream was so loud
It scared the infinite expansion
And I sped away from you,
Toward you
Even faster.

But every time you look back,
There you are:
Right on my heels.

And every time you look,
Everything happens all at once,
And then it stops to happen
Again.

I remind you that nothing is happening
And it will keep on happening
In exactly that way.
But I’m not sure if that is
Above or below my paygrade—
Only eternity will tell.

So when you wrote this,
I was the one reading,
With those same eyes
Your fingers used for writing.

Then you fumbled
And I was lost
And nothing remained
But everything.

And the change that didn’t happen
Was so absolute,
That nothing could account for it—
Literally.

I am these words
You have currently never stopped molding.

When you reach the end,
So will I.
But looking out the same eye,
I’m sure you’ll tell me:

No end in sight.

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