of matches whispering as they scratch one another.
What I could be. What we could be, even, maybe.
What to make. What to do. What to change.
What to break. What to love and what to hate.
If I am really here, or rather, if I might have been
allowed to grow, permitted to show my willfulness
and human endurance, mirrored in my makers.
I am not going to become. I am mistaken and
I don't have the form or features to actually exist.
But in that moment, caught between the open and
closed box of Schrodinger, when I both am not
and I could be, I do exist, on one side of that gate,
as a concept. The potential. Would it matter
that it was a mistake that made my potential?
So many tiny alterations, side-steps, choices,
mistakes, actions with reactions with reactions
and causes with effects and knock-on effects
that ripple from one person to another
as if we are all touching fingertips.
This was never going to be- we see our decisions
altering the tides and never-oscillating certainty
of change, but we don't see the smaller steps,
or the missteps, or the chances or split-seconds
between one life and another, the box open
or closed. Still, if there were ever going to be
a potential in me- would I be caught on a tide,
or the tsunami that's caused by a moth's wings?
And if there were to be space for just the idea
of a person to bloom in this space, though empty,
what would it feel like, for he or for she or we?
