the good life 

‘But the most important thing is not life itself, but the good life’ – Plato, Crito


the world is too big for me to tread every path, my feet are itching for a run.

a road diverged in the woods, and i sat at the fork.

deep breaths, inhaling second-hand memories

the tongue tingles with the aftertaste, but my stomach is empty

i read every recipe, but have yet to have a meal.

i can cook – i can breathe;
not all breathing things live,


not all breathing things die
or dying things cry
or tears that flow from suffering
if nothing can come nothing
then what is inside me?

what has come forth from nothing?


if i cannot tread the path outside,
then lay me at the inner fork.
sit me down at a table,

let me choose forever,

decide my meals for me
and let me savour the coming wafts

how can i not know what is to come?
how can i taste what i have not eaten?

80% of taste comes from the nose.


have i truly tasted anything?

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