you’ll know you’ve done enough when every bone is sore
you’ll know you’ve prayed enough when you don’t ask anymore
you’ll know you’re coming to some kind of understanding
when every dream you’ve dreamed has passed and you’re still standing
What is this understanding that insinuates itself into my mind, curling like smoke into my ears and nostrils? Who would welcome such a thing? I choke on it, I resist it, I want to un-see, un-feel it. Am I supposed to arrive at some sort of peace? Is there no arriving anywhere, only sitting still in complete surrender?
Some days I can’t bear to look and it feels like my eyes are forcibly pried open. Let me at least blink. Let me have a respite, eh? Is it too much to ask?
My vision shifts so quickly in scale, from the expanse of all oceans, all lands, wrapped like fragile, tearing paper around this planetary orb, to the very small and particular circumstances of a wasp in the lamp, the imploring question in a child’s eyes, doomed love stories, a single life expiring.
Yes, I have some kind of understanding why so many are driven to drink themselves to death, or use some other method of escape. I’m not doing that. There’s no escaping. This is all there is. I’m sifting through the debris all around me, handling each object like a holy revelation, marveling at the contours of truth and pain, wanting to howl with loss but instead finding myself mesmerized by this emotional archiving.
I’m alone, truly alone.