Saturday, June 19, 2021

More Time Dying Than Living

there is nothing we desire more than to be loved.
so why do we spend so much time dying
when we could be living?
we wish to laugh with joy and humor,
but don’t take ourselves seriously enough to be funny.
in memories we find, or hope to,
the treasures of a life.
but memory is a mirror cracked,
ever on the cusp of shattering
into a thousand sword-sharp shards.
we proceed through life guided only by
a damaged map of an enshrouded world:
an incomplete set of information
about an ever-changing cosmos.
but it’s from not knowing that meaning comes.
the mystery is the point.
so, battle the monster if you must,
but remember:
the monster is only yourself,
and all wars are useless and foolish
and fought over delusions.
we each differ in our natures, it seems,
or perhaps only in our degrees of illness…
an illness for which there is no treatment but love,
and no cure short of death.
we each re-write our stories as we go.
my pages are dog-eared and worn;
too many times re-read, perhaps,
and re-written just as many.

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