Numbers of nearly identical
Colored marbles, each slightly unique.
So far, you have drawn a few thousand,
Most of which quickly slipped from your hands.
The ones left, you’ve discolored handling.
You wake up from broken marble dreams
Thinking you’re seeking something, the one
Combination of marbles for you,
The one perfect for you. You take out
Some of the dozens you’ve discolored
From handling so often. Scrutinize.
Rearrange. They’re not what you’re seeking,
But what you’re seeking you imagine
Based on what you have now in your hands.
Out there, your urn bursts, full of marbles
In myriad patterns and colors,
Each slightly different from the other.
Murakami once claimed, Whatever
It is you’re seeking, it won’t show up
In the form you’re expecting. Ever,
If it shows up recognizably
Similar at all. Pessimistic?
Well. Consider the scope of the urn.
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