My life has turned into a series of numbers:
days, dollars, pounds;
like an equation in math class
my life has become too complex
to complete without technological assistance.
Even forming words,
it feels like I’m counting:
letters, syllables, lines,
like maybe if I just keep calculating,
I’ll find the remedy for it all,
find the answer to my heavy head,
because if the answer to the ultimate question
of life, the universe, and everything
is 42
then maybe I can plug it in
behind the “equals” sign
and solve for “x,”
solve for the achey bones and weary eyes,
solve for the rusted parts of our souls,
but I’m tired of trying to find an answer,
because maybe there is no answer,
maybe we’re all just a bunch of monkeys
on a spinning rock,
all of us just trying to survive
before our sun collapses.
And maybe that’s okay.