Blur

A blur.
A gust of wind.
Dusts collected from afar.
These are the proof of change.
A collection of things
Swept up and transferred from
Across the seas,
Brought here just for me.
There's no way to know
What stories might be held inside
These lonely grains of dust,
Skin cells shed from the once loved
Now forgotten.
If there was a way to scan these pieces,
To extract the moments
Imprinted on folds of skin
By stress and experience,
Perhaps we'd notice and appreciate
History as it passes through our fingers.
Until then,
We build artificial thinkers
To imitate the soul.
Carbon copies of carbon.
Imitation of the thinking
Of uncritical thinking,
A guide to build a system
To bring the death of thinking.
A social network of artifice
Became capable of the unthinkable?
Huh...
Who would have thought.

-Khushi Kaul