Why Are We Even Like This

A murderous wind pushes mad against the unmoved buildings which line the street. In my mind whir thoughts of you and I and the way we can’t seem to help but see things as poetic when the rest of the world sees them not at all as such. I can tell by the way you move, the uncanny things you say. The way you look at me like everything you ever wished for all your life is about to spill helplessly from your beautiful mouth.

I’m sure it’s a curse but one I want with all of my heart to keep the ache of longing alive in my bones. To see beyond the beyond and try desperately to bring something back worth sharing in whatever feeble attempt the average disillusioned mortal can make at writing down what one believes when everything else falls away.

I have spent much time alone this past year, reflecting on the relentless insanity of it all. Disease, division, destruction. The only thing more absurd than the Absurd is whatever the fuck reality has come to be. The ridiculous thing is that there is some part of me which thinks, perhaps quite stupidly and against all odds, that something wondrous is about to begin if I could just let go of what has been all along.

Inside the shadows which line the corners of my bedroom walls, I can feel something within me crawl toward a door which has too long remained closed. A soft white light glows elegant beneath, as I kneel like a child too timid to reach for the knob above her curious head. Outside on the wind, the voices of those who left this one small life behind with stories still inside them tremble and moan and call to me, like something wild is about to make itself known in no uncertain terms.

9 Replies to “Why Are We Even Like This”

  1. “The way you look at me like everything you ever wished for all your life is about to spill helplessly from your beautiful mouth.”
    Such a perfect line and the thoughts it conjures are so sweet…simply divine, angel✨🤍🕊

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Yes, more than just seeing beyond the beyond, but bringing back something–something beyond the insanity, the inanity of it all, something worth holding and hearing and my God yes, believing in. Believing it here and now, because once the door is open, it may be impossible to remain. Once you reach beyond the beyond, what is there to stop you from going through? I had never thought about that before, Allison. You bless my thoughts my wonder which, however frightening the place they might take me, still makes me long for more. When this is what I see–“The only thing more absurd than the Absurd is whatever the fuck reality has come to be”–which is perfectly said, mo ghràidh–when this is what I see, how tempting it can be to move on. And on. To seek peace not in the absurdity, but beyond it. Is that why I am so nostalgic at times? Why my memories continue relentlessly to seduce me? Believing there is something more, something finer, with a voice worth hearing and a touch worth feeling, something I continue believing in and longing for. However stupidly and against all odds. In any given moment, engaging restlessly, needfully, sensually with the words that frame and fill me–in all of that, I have never called myself a poet. But maybe this is why I tend to think of myself as a romantic. Because I want to open the door. And step through.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It is so powerful, isn’t it, George…. just to say the thing you want. Just to move your mouth, your soul, around the words. I am ecstatic to read your thoughts, thank you ever so much. You ask questions and they ring in my mind clear as bells in the cold winter air. Are we poets? Romantics? Believers? Fools? Visionaries? How are we ever to know, do we really need to… 🌹🕊

      Liked by 1 person

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