The Collector

A poem

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I said, "I don't collect things, I collect experiences"
so God made a liar out of me
and pointed to my room full of books. 

I argued: a book's not a thing, it's a dream
experience given form—the utmost want
for those who want for nothing.

But all experiences collect dust on a shelf before their time
and no one presumes to call them "mine."

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One of my greatest delusions is the idea that I can somehow delay impermanence. That if I just remember hard enough, I can hoard the moments of my life, which pass as quickly as they come. That if I just pray hard enough I can keep people, and one of us will not have to face the harsh reality of parting with the other.

My greatest hope is in the principle that everything and its opposite exist at the same time. If this is the case, then there should be a ‘permanent record’ of sorts, a oneness we all return to.

Whenever I consider this, my ego cries, “But will I be the same?”

This poem is my prayer that my life is a book on a shelf. One that can be returned to at will. Isn’t that everyone’s best chance of immortality?

Of course, we don’t often reread books—even the ones that we love. The memory suffices, as does the copy on the shelf, put there ‘just in case.’

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