Life upon a time was conceived to me
as one concrete reality
transcending the superficiality;
its nature cared not what you or I had to say
Twas there presupposing our imaginations, a moral block,
a matrix protecting us from decay.
In my head it didn't stay.
as all measurements and values
once assumed as matters so obvious
transformed into this incomprehensible oblivion
in which what you knew is now obsolete.
I come here now to inform you
of the deterioration of
things once concrete.
One of the hardest things for me
Is ranking my pain on a scale of 1 to 10
for in the end, the standard set
seems principally arbitrary.
As how I feel is so fundamentally dependent on how I say I feel,
none of my feeling can really be real.
Here is the deal:
The Atlas,
carrying in excruciation my existence
like the one in mythology that carries the world
is an undeniably bold lie.
But it is what you say it is
this life.
This you cannot deny.
The Christian thinks it is a test, examining principally
the capacity to suffer for others gradually
becoming a man in the process.
The Hindu thinks it is a playing of role
a caste, designated to you from birth.
In playing this role
you are made whole
becoming part of one manifestation
one elaborate play on earth.
The Jew and the Muslim concur greatly with the
Christians thinking life an examination while differing with the
rest.
Nevertheless,
they live similar lives, serving their families, eating their food
soaking in the sun and doing what they're told is good.
On numerous matters they disagree
on what is the reality
of this good.
Should women dress modestly or be ever free?
Is stoning deserved for those of toxic infidelity?
It's whatever you say
It's whatever you see
In the end, they all tend to sleep on peaceful deathbeds
concrete realities.
Not me.
However I plead thee
to acknowledge my lack of intellectual arrogance.
For, while it may appear so, we are not in a state of intransigence;
I don't think I'm that different from anyone else
(That was the matter on which I thought you'd think we'd disagree.)
For we are all just different forms of the verb to be
My combination is as much what I say it is
as yours is what you say it is.
Tis
all the same in the end.
Upon coming into this monolith of a reality
the making of the great machine
I was much disheartened
staring aimlessly through the translucent curtains at my window sill
at the great forgotten.
Now, however,
I've accepted.
I am happy as I say it to be
pacing this large land of you and me.
Sometimes I long for the days of the concrete reality
but then I just tell myself no and retreat to things I always do
a comforting monotony, an anesthetic kiss
Tis what you say it is
through
out at the world forgotten.
I
