ice

Having reached ones' objectives, every one that was ever thought of
What does one have to find, to go on?
What further elevation, what higher goal?
Especially when one knows, or at least is convinced,
That there are no more new ones, just the playing of a broken record.

All the thoughts, desires and ambitions of yesteryear
When accomplished, leave no more room, and yet
Leave a wide vacant space, with which there is nothing to fill.

So one should be able to relax, in comfort, and happiness:
But where have the feelings, the emotions, the relaxation gone to?
They've become history, lost affections in the sands of time;
There is no contrast to allow the realisation of relaxation,
There is no longer the zest, the context, for emotions are numbed
By continual exposure to the cold facts of life.

Pretence can be the answer... however pretence is but a short portrayal
Of what one used to be, of what one no longer has,
And is in any case not maintainable for any significant time.
The answer must lie beneath my very fingers - for this machine with which I write
Clearly has far more abilities than my own few feeble cells.

To carry on must mean only one thing: to learn to be more like this machine,
Never needing any contact, just a supply of a little energy,
And remaining in working state even when switched off for so long.
Simply going through the motions of functionality,
Never requiring any contact or caress or other such disturbance.

I'll probably become just another bio-system, surviving in empty space,
Becoming cold, with no needs, and a loss of understanding
Of all the human qualities, one by one, as I regress into isolation.

The predictions of my 'originators' are proving to be true:
I have no feeling, need none, and although I would like to think otherwise,
Any which I thought I did have had is not required in todays' market.
Life's not over, but it isn't really relevant either. Not for anyone, nearly.

So what do I have to trade? Ice aplenty. Continuous production.
I can supply it in myriad forms, in blocks, in sheets, or sharp cutting shards,
Or even in words. Delivery guaranteed. Anyone for ice?

FCTG : 11/1/2000

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