Sometimes it’s difficult to admit I know exactly what is happening,
and that I know things can always get worse.
I think this is because Joy has got its suction cups wrapped so tightly
around me and dug itself into me so deeply anything that isn’t it
feels like I’m drowning in chocolate milk.
I write in the early morning in order to prove to myself
that anything is possible to make time for, even me,
even wanting to be me,
and sometimes I even manage to fall upward through the sky of my
dreams, where I talk to the stars through a black hole of uncertainty
I can always count on to give me what I want.
I mean, why wouldn’t I want to live beyond the suffering world,
where sun storms of happiness and hopefulness are the perfect antidote
for a case of being a pain in my own ass?
I tell myself that when I can’t focus or set boundaries and get mad at
the government for only knowing how to tell truths that are round
and smooth and so won’t hurt as much,
it’s because I just need to spend a little more time thinking
before acting, and that pain is still something I think I can remove
from my life like a sliver from the tip of a finger, like honesty will
finally take care of it
But you can’t remove pain from the tip of your life without also
removing pleasure from it. That’s what makes it so hard to live with.
I think it’s that difficulty, that loss of innocence, that determined
intelligence, and not the pain itself, that makes the wounded child
hold its bloody finger up in the air above its head as if to give it
reluctantly to God, and cry like a mother who just lost her child
to an invisible and unstoppable force.