ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY DEGREES

I have had occasion to use a line from a very old post today. Twice.

“Are we not all Psychic, with our brains operating like Time Machines, where information from the future influences events of the past?”

And then I ran into this poem. Something about it seemed to connect at first, but now I don’t know. But I will mark it just the same, and see if there is an event in the future that made this necessarily so…


Have you considered the possibility
that everything you believe is wrong,
not merely off a bit, but totally wrong,
nothing like things as they really are?


If you've done this, you know how durably fragile
those phantoms we hold in our heads are,
those wisps of thought that people die and kill for,
betray lovers for, give up lifelong friendships for.


If you've not done this, you probably don't understand this poem,
or think it's not even a poem, but a bit of opaque nonsense,
occupying too much of your day's time,
so you probably should stop reading it here, now.


But if you've arrived at this line,
maybe, just maybe, you're open to that possibility,
the possibility of being absolutely completely wrong,
about everything that matters.


How different the world seems then:
everyone who was your enemy is your friend,
everything you hated, you now love,
and everything you love slips through your fingers like sand.
ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY DEGREES

by Federico Moramarco