Isn’t the existence
a misunderstood joke?

It raises questions like
Why am I?
Who am I?
As if there is something.

Something serious
something mysterious
knowing which
things would start making sense.

Is it really necessary for things to make sense?
Isn’t it possible that all this is merely a joke?



There is nothing to hear,
and yet, I listen
I hear.

It is always there.
Everything fades into it.

Who can stand against it?
Who can?
When even time is merely a dream.


What is there to see?
Is there something?
That can cure me of my stupidity?

Things, they seem so full of holes and blemishes.
To know something would mean you haven’t looked closely enough.

Why am I then
trying so hard to know?

Will it ever,
this knowing,
fill the emptiness inside me?









Who could have thought that
silence could be so silent?
Who could?

For even thoughts,
they are so loud.
How can they ever convey
something as silent as silence?
How can they?

They always fail.
And so do their expressions.

And at best,
they just give a hope,
of something that exists without them.

Alone looking at the mountain – by Li Po

All the birds have flown up and gone;
A lonely cloud floats leisurely by.
We never tire of looking at each other –
Only the mountain and I.


The birds have vanished down the sky.
Now the last cloud drains away.
We sit together, the mountain and I,
until only the mountain remains.

– Li Bai, translated by Sam Hamill


For billions of years I have traveled,
but still I am myself.

Earlier, it was just the hope,
the hope of becoming somebody else,
that kept me going.

But, now it isn’t the same.
Now that I’ve started doubting this hope,
how tiresome my journey has become.