I know not much of life
I know I’ve fought battles, I was never asked to fight.
I’ve never seen
peace, kindness, happiness
all at once
without a layer of despair.
Days dissolve away
back into the earth,
back into the stars
back into the sea
where I saw the bones of a dinosaur dancing around
I know not much of death.
Seeing as I have not died yet.
But, oh, how much I know of the thought of it.
Of it creeping around my bedroom
as I sit and stare at it.
And I can’t look away
as it directs my every thought
my every hope my every train distraught
by its permanent presence
its unavoidable essence
that both mocks and warns,
takes but scorns,
a soundless sound escapes my voice
as I drown in knowing,
I have no other choice.
Sleep alludes me,
thoughts do not.
They don’t ask permission
even when they aren’t sought.
I know not much of physics;
the world as it is, for what it is.
In all its laws and evidence and numbers
I can’t seem to find reason,
I can’t seem to find answers
to the hate, the crime, the death, the numbered days
that we are forced to sit and wait
as they pass and we sleep them away.
And gravity pulls my atoms
but my mind caresses the clouds
and floats all the way to the end of the universe
even into those that are still yet to be found.
But I suppose there’s not much we can do
except move, live, walk, eat, breathe, and wander
as we ponder the earth beneath our feet
and our eyes and ears and nose and hearts wonder
what is a soul and where in our bodies does it meet
to make me, me, to make you, you,
to make my insides a bloated fog of thunder?
I know not much of anything.
It seems Socrates was on to something.
Without getting too philosophical:
(of which I know not much)
we fabricate reasons,
like the earth creates oxygen,
so we can breathe this life for which we never asked,
so we find the strength to fight battles that were never ours to fight,
so that this sun, its new moon and the night we outlast
until we have to face the night, and we become past.
If there is something I wish I never was
as much as it is irrelevant
would be, to be an elephant.
we have enough memory as is.
– C. Bauxa
June 17, 2016