What a myth time’s become now, for real.
At first, the maddening anchorlessness
was almost fun. What new emotion would
clamber from the dizzying solitude next?
If I embarrass myself and no one’s watching,
am I embarrassed? Not that the walls whispered,
but they might as well have.
We really do contain multitudes, I thought,
like a stoned undergrad, wading through the days,
repeating their useless names. Monday. Tuesday.
Lining them like cadets in the field of my mind,
only to be brought back to the desperate now
by the blast of some car horn and realize
I’d forgotten what month it was again.
Ok. Maybe it wasn’t fun.
But I was learning, I think.
About awareness. Gratitude.
The precious radar blip of life.
And if the joys were fleeting
so too was the dread – and what did it matter
after awhile? The puzzle itself almost a pleasure
to parse. If fun is short-lived but short is long
am I having fun all the time or barely ever?
Hahaha, I laughed, sun and moon hanging,
random as a coin flip in the sky.
And then it became dark.
Temporal turpitude, a friend called it.
Time stripping us of our senses,
us rendering time moot. Either way,
the maze going on too long.
The adventure turning to trap.
It’s not even thrilling, to be so confused.
It kills, to have no purpose.
To see no family.
To know you have friends
and yet be forced just to imagine them.
I’m not friends with people
for them to be alive in my mind.
That’s a job for the dead.