In my town,
a notorious philosopher
sat on the wall
along the bike path by the creek,
shouting at passersby
that we aren’t capable
of understanding
why anything exists.
He’d sneer,
good luck trying to solve it all.
We ignored him,
like the zombies
he believed us to be.
He spoke of the futility
in searching for meaning
in the alienated grief of particles.
The townsfolk would nod,
or wave out of politeness.
A few stopped to talk—
and to those liars who claimed
they had answers,
he hurled bottles
at the sidewalk by their feet.
As I rode past
over the broken glass,
he shouted questions,
and I didn’t react.
I heard him grow quieter
as I biked away.
I can’t remember
what he said,
but later that day
I wrote it down:
do you find spirit
in moving air
in shifting water
in entropy
