Every now and then I collapse
For years I have lived as a hot air balloon
Filled with lighter than air cyclic existence
21,000 cubic feet of distractions
Wafts of my 8-5 job
Compressed television series
Socializing and drinking…
Then some days it happens…
While looming in atmospheric confinement
Between anthropogenic chaos
and derivative divinity
My cookie-cut tranquility is vanquished
By unacquainted inquiry…
Like a low flying aircraft who’s wingtips
Inadvertently tear a gash into my nylon polymer’d frailty
Leaving me to plummet
from my soft pillow- topped cumulus consciousness
Into the hard crusted bedrock of existential anxiety
Why are we humans… here?
Where did we come from?
What is the universe?
How many stars does it take for me to feel unwelcome…?
Where did our sun come from?
I don’t mean how do stars form… I mean…
How am I here… with our sun?
What will happen to me when I die?
The age I am right now
At this moment…
I will never be again...
As I finish this sentence…
I feel this anxiety build and tremble inside me like a gas pump
THUNKing gallon by gallon
and I yearn for that CLICK!
When the tank is full and I’m reminded not to top-off
Whether that click arrives as a telephone call
Or an aneurysm I could care less
I just want the world around me to feel less foreign
And more like a left hand
An appendage I know is there
I know it’s part of me…
But I so often forget how clumsy it is
when tasks are delegated to it exclusively
I want the unknowns of this world to feel more like comfort
Like the gravel of my grandfather’s hands rubbing my neck as boy
Not a like a brightly lit orange cocoon
Where butterflies flutter helplessly
under the weighted compressed air of uncertainties
Where I eulogize my naiveté and wish that I had a hobby
that provoked thoughtless thoughts less thoughtful
Than the barren universe
Rife with uncertainty, isolation and disorderedness
Static rebellion and leaderless activity
I plead one day…
It will produce for me a fruitful medley of purpose…
Some wrap themselves in the comforting arms of their religions
Oddly enough…I prefer to indulge my time with those
Who claim to know as few answers as I do
But yearn for more…
With index fingers white on the triggers of mayhem
That shred corner puzzle pieces in protest
Rather than be shawled in dogmas of bliss
I think I’d rather feel the rain for once
These terrors are real…
But we too often consume rather than marinate
Slowly… my nylon sack slowly begins inflating
Comfort returns as I fixate upon those tasks that I know I can control
Bound to repetitive bureaucratic bean counting monotony
That coos my delicate inquiries into hibernation¬¬
And I hope to never conceive a thought again
As long as my phone is in my pocket
My headphone in my ear
My television is blathering aimlessly
And canned laughter force feeds me caloric hallowed Elysium
I wonder what else is on…