It Doesn’t Really Matter Poem by Nathan Strange
It Doesn’t Really Matter
The sun shines brightly outside but my curtains remain closed.
Fatigue speaks to me and tells me to rest my head but my mind tells me to get a job.
My heart tells me to write a novel and fear tells me I won’t make it.
Then I open my curtains and the sun beams in and I begin to roll a cigarette. As I spark it up and inhale the smoke I realise that it doesn’t matter what I do as long as I have £75 for the landlord at the end of the week.
I already have that in the bank and I did my shopping yesterday, so the truth is nothing really matters, nothing except this god damn cigarette.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/20/2024 9:31:05 AM # 1.0.0.1119
This is a great great great poem. If you like the old literature, I reckon you'd like the french existentialists - maybe Kafka too. But that's not the point. I love this poem. It says everything that needs to be said. Simply beautiful in that grip it has on our own feeling of absurdity. Glad I could read these.