…and it all leads me to a point,
which is, it’s pointless;
the whole story.
All of it.
Completely and utterly.
I’ll give you that.
It’s compelling is what it is.
And it’s awful and shameful
and painful and exciting
and intriguing and sad and romantic
and maybe a bit farfetched,
even if it is 100% true –
at least to the best of my recollection –
but it’s pointless.
It hasn’t changed any lives with its telling.
It hasn’t ended world hunger.
It hasn’t divulged the location of Hoffa’s remains.
My electric bill must still be paid by the 10th to avoid disconnection.
We’re all going to die whether God exists or not
and nobody is going to remember my story –
or yours, for that matter –
but they, too, will have stories
and tell them
and realize that their stories are pointless …
except to them.
To them they will matter
and to them they will have points
just like your story matters to you
and mine matters to me
and that’s the whole point:
even pointless stories have a point
if they matter enough to be told,
even if we don’t know
or care about the point.
Everything is pointless and nothing is pointless.
That’s the point.
© The Poet Darkling