Machinist's whys

Precise and fast these hands move.
Habitual perfection.
The eyes move faster, notice all.
Like a hungry owl,
but the thoughts behind these eyes
are not of the work,
but work of stirring curiosity.

As the lightning hands stretch, pull and push.
The mind is traumatized.
Plagued with questions of world mysteries:
Is there anything after this?
Hate the thought of limited existence,
doesn't everyone?
Twenty-one grams of nothing?
The deeper i succumb to questions;
the faster i move.
Eyes possessed
as i separate.

Could the space that shows no boundaries
be infinite?
Because we can't see, it can't be.
Is there no more life to be seen? Endless space
endless possibilities.

Later i lay in a lukewarm bath.
Ears under the water.
I hear nothing,
absolute silent serenity.
Just the gushing pumping sound
hitting through arteries.
It's then that i realize:
There are no whys and buts.
Only ands.