I
can hang a question
out
there to ponder,
like
furry dice,
hung
in the car,
from
the rear view mirror.
Pretty
soon,
I
am looking into that mirror
for
answers.
What's
with that?
That
experiential reverie,
that
everyday mind,
looking
back
and
I am a captive audience,
messing
with meaning
as
if it were a glue stick
putting
impressions together.
Maybe
I am just trying
to
pass the time,
feigning
interest,
having
purpose,
addicted
to experiences
to
save me.
I
make up consequences.
I
tried being a romantic.
I
tried life with feelings.
I
tried being busy.
I
tried being important.
I
gave up on everything
but
still experiences
came
my way.
It
was not healthy,
not
trying,
carelessly
so.
Life
became options
gained
or lost.
I
adapted to the life of choices,
like
it was on the menu
before
I really noticed.
Still
tunnel functioned
as
if I was a flashlight
on
in a darkened room.
I
lived in the spotlight
of
service to hide away,
to
give freely
and
it was a good time
away
from
all
this unfinished business.
Secretly,
I was suspect
of
purpose for its grandness.
I
was suspect of pleasure
for
its loss of control.
I
was suspect of meaning
for
its failure to convert me.
I
was suspect of death
for
its promises.
I
was suspect of fear
for
its neediness.
I
was suspect of joy
for
its frozen smile.
and
I am very suspect
of
this thumb opposing
sense
of responsibility,
pressing
me into time
and
all-I-can-do experiences . . .
What
is it with us,
when
we think experience
is the composite of
what we are?
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