I am not controlling
My life,
Nor the world,
Nor the words and actions
Of all these people around me.
Still I am in control.
Still every word makes sense,
Just as it always had.
Still their actions are clear,
Plain and intellegible to me.
I have an identity, somewhere.
But I don't bother to find it.
Everything just fits.
And I am not really supposed
To explain why.
Maybe this vertigo
Is the last sigh
Of my controlling self,
Slowly fading
In this new found peace.
Maybe it is the beginning
Of an emancipated self,
Free and calm.
Maybe this vertigo
Is another name for freedom.
We can call it
Freedom, or Liberty or Self-determination.
Maybe the cultured man
Will think of Euthymia,
Or some other label
Of Stoic wisdom.
Be like that.
Maybe it's an ending.
Maybe a beginning.
Probably, both.
Maybe it's just beautiful.