百花齐放

Sometimes it feels I have given up on minding and mining the social issues. Like how I simply stopped writing poetry one fine day, and suddenly, how this poetic condition of lack has persisted doggedly to extend to a few (but one too many has passed already) years. My disconcertment is incommensurable with concern and care though. I do notice, and it does bother, slightly, now and then, but the sense of unease disperses as quickly, as I throw myself into The Everyday Life with such matter-of-brute-fact finesse and lost enthusiasm that I reckon even Heidegger himself would disapprove. Strange, strange Dasein.

I can turn myself only momentarily away from the cruel facticity of my being: the burdensomeness of Being, of mattering and what matters, not. In the face of it all, I remained mostly unmoved, untouched, and life stays insanely uneventful.

What can I do, my love, to demonstrate my youth and my beliefs, that they are still alive, and burningly so? Writing about them in the straightforward way seems too callous and does no justice when everything is so blatantly wrong. Isn’t it obvious enough?

How many of me, are there, in this place that claims me as her own? How many thinking, disconnected individuals who can no longer identify with bloody, bleeding relations. Oh yes, to dye, as so to dilute into one even consistency, the many faceted Reality can only die.

To dare myself, can you, why can’t anyone do something? We can attempt the small first: start a trust fund to get him out of bankruptcy? Just a dollar from each one would suffice and we can spare the dollar.

Why are we writing all the time? Even though it can be worse, like not writing, like forgetting poetry.

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