What if all my thoughts are due to illness
and my dreams because of pain?
Maybe that’s why I cannot rest in stillness
and all this living seems in vain.
What if all my days are not numbered
and the future is in my hands?
But if so, why am I so encumbered
with useless nonsense and silly plans?
What if all my stories are wrong
and my knowledge is mistaken?
But if so, why do I go along
with views I have already forsaken?
What if all my secrets were found out
and my troubles – made public?
Maybe then I could live without
worry and don’t care a lick.
What if all my moves are known in advance
and my free will is an illusion?
Then I live this life by chance
in senseless noise and confusion.
* Painting “A Mortally Wounded Brigand Quenches his Thirst” by Eugene Delacroix, 1825,