Out,
in,
out,
in,
nothing in between,
an unending oscillation.
Life flows out,
man moves in,
a constant traffic.
Yet even in their steps
they cannot tell
if they are going out
or coming in.
And so we continue,
never fully in,
never fully out,
always between arrival
and continuation,
like trains that roll without destination,
like queues that stretch beyond memory,
the everyday life of working men,
like Sisyphus,
rolling,
dragging,
up,
down,
up,
down,
pendulating between
essence
and absurdity.
The horizon drifts.
The sky leans.
The ground exhales.
And still we move.
Time itself pendulates:
tick,
tock,
tick,
tock,
breath in,
breath out.
Never as those who arrive,
only as those who pass
through motion itself.
Out,
in,
out,
in,
we are the swing,
we are the stillness inside it.
Between heartbeat and silence,
between now and never,
between pulse and oblivion,
we sway.
And so we continue,
not forward,
not backward,
but inward and outward
at once.
