Among The Wildflowers

lonely

there are times in my life —
more often than not —
where i feel incredibly lonely.
so separated from reality to the
point where reality is nearly
indistinguishable from the
falsehoods of imagination.
so conjoined to the uncertainty
of life and death. i breathe in
the freedom of confinement.

to live and to be alive are not
one in the same. to die and to be
dying are not one in the same.
to be lonely and to be alone
are not one in the same.
i am alive and i am dying lonely
and i am dying free. my reality
is merely a fragment of imagination
riddled with falsifications about
myself and all that surrounds and
doesn't surround me. for what is
fact and what is fiction?
what is fiction without fact
and what is fact without fiction?

i do not have a soul but i am one.
i am a soul with a body
- temporarily.
i am a mind with thoughts until
my thoughts are no longer sensible
to those that have brains outside
of my own. a brain that can in no
way probable, understand my own,
and neither mine, theirs.
all that is incomprehensible to
everything that has the capacity
to comprehend it. none of it is special.
all that is special is special
to only us. and me.

all of us, one and another,
are secluded on this pale blue dot,
possibly unknown to any other
creature beyond our current knowledge.
and though we aren't special
there is something special about that.
special in the absence of a word
to mimic the feeling of astonishment
one may get if they let their mind
run wild with the possibilities
and impossibilities of "life"
as we creatures grasp it.

i am alone in it all.
alone in the figment of my own
imagination, wasting time until
i run out of it. never knowing
when the clock will stop.
never knowing the cause.
forever trapped within myself
as i stare out at all
that stares back at me.
until the ends of my days,
and the ends of my nights.
dying as i lived,
living as i died.
lonely.