When you keep losing people at a constant rate, it starts to feel like
you can't breathe and you start to feel the pressure
of everything mounting in your throat.
Sometimes we are best by ourselves, you said, and sometimes
I thought that was true. But lately
I wonder how every man can ever stay apart from each other
and sit in our own silence, without wondering,
is someone dropping splinters on our floors?
I think that the night is full with whatever
we make it to be; I feel stuffed with
everything and nothing at the same time. We are miniscule,
in infancy, ruled by whims
and impulses; yet, you are the routine
I can't break, and other people systematically stitch
me together in the patterns
of their lives. How can we be at peace
and alive all at once? This striving is what drives
art, how can I write
about a world that is empty, devoid
of a struggle or a war? I cannot. I can only hope
that these whispers bring forth ripe fruit, I can only watch as
my existential dissonance is turned into
because our species has never
let anything live without first giving it
a label, and I think
that's what keeps us together.
We are a balance of chaos
and calculation. But knowing this does nothing
to lessen the caving in of my lungs, and does nothing
to bring my body to rest
when my arms long to be around
someone, and my head
is too full to manage.