Start writing they say
you never know where you’ll end up or
what you’ll find along the way.
(Some add, “You’ll get past the block.”)
But it’s not a block really, is it?
It’s about picking and choosing
or–better yet–
about selection, and commitment, and
value and discovery
of what is true.
It’s about—
Is the matter worthy of minutes and hours
and signals scurrying through synapses and
the charring of brain cells and
time lost forever once used.
Or do we deck ourselves in our finest
to bring our most precious to an altar
snared by the heights and trappings of a priest
who stands above a nothing abyss beneath?
Twenty seven million, 941 thousand, 760 minutes gone
and counting…
less than that remain.
It’s about the regret of after,
about the trauma and stress that’ll come,
when I realize how trivial the noun was
that I gave my precious minutes to, or worse,
how base.
It’s a struggle—a war, really, of life and death—
that so few take on
to keep from the depths that people often fall,
to seize and cling to and exult on
the slightest spark of progress made
during our time here on the planet.
It’s about lifting the human spirit,
and whatever I do,
whatever we humans do,
should come back to that,
shouldn’t it?
