In the Existence of Ambition

there’s something tragic in the existence of

ambition, in the knowledge that satisfaction

is an impossible goal. we search for meaning

and pretend not to notice the fact that none

of this really means anything- it’s a moment,

nothing more. and then another one, and

then one of these nothing more than a

moments is our last, and it comes down to

what, deep down, was there in the first place:

did we look that far into the abyss that is our

existence, or did we crawl toward that mirage

of a finish line they call happiness? and

did we ever take the time to look at all the

other somethings in the existence of ambition?

maybe meaning is hiding between the wrinkles

of this moment, or maybe it was wearing

ambition’s face all along. maybe lost last

moments are tragic, or maybe a better name for

the human condition is magic. maybe impossible

isn’t a reality we should accept any time soon, and

maybe if we pretend hard enough, our mirage

will be the birthplace for enough nothing more

than a moments to shape the next image of the world.