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Poem

In the labyrinth of our existence, where echoes of voices clash,
We are but wanderers, lost in a cacophony of senseless chatter,
Radio waves and television screens, spreading the spirit of noise,
We are filled with pointless expressions, endless streams of words and images.
Stupidity, never blind nor mute, dances freely in the public square,
It’s not about making people speak, but finding the spaces,
Those precious gaps of solitude and silence,
Where one might stumble upon a thought worth sharing.
Repressive forces do not stifle our voices,
Instead, they compel us to speak, to fill the void with sounds,
What a relief it would be, to have nothing to say,
To embrace the right to silence, for within that silence,
Lies the chance to frame something rare, something valuable.
In these times, it’s not the blockage of communication that affects us,
But the flood of pointless statements, noise without substance,
For what we call meaning is the point of a statement,
Its novelty, its relevance—these are the true measures of value.
You can listen for hours, but what’s the point?
Arguments strain our spirits, for it rarely makes sense to argue,
You can’t just tell someone their words are pointless,
So you tell them they are wrong, but wrongness isn’t the issue,
The problem lies in irrelevance, in redundancy,
In things said a thousand times before.
Relevance, necessity, the point of something,
These notions are a thousand times more significant than simple truth,
Not as substitutes for truth, but as true measures of its essence,
In the quiet spaces, in the silence between words,
May we find the rare gems, the statements that truly matter.

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