Self less

 

I believe I am apart; unto myself.
A belief I share with almost everyone
there’s been or will be.

Earmarked in living and not yet to die.
Likely to do better. To be recognized,
embraced, encouraged.
Flattered for good reason.
Excused.

I know this is not the case,
but I believes it is,
and I know I believe.

Between these things, within them,
is the meaning of my life
as it will be lived to its conclusion.

And at the end there will be no outcome
and no one else will know
and it will not matter
and the world will not miss me
or mourn me, nor need me,
nor call me back,
even if there were some means to do so.
There is not. And I know this.

And yet I will wake in the morning,
a few hours from now
(for it is already night inside my head
and I sleep as we speak)
and I will have forgotten
the greater matter of my ordinary self.

And I will smell the sour milk
and feel my stubbed toes,
the coarse towel cloth robe,
old and worn against my aging skin,
and without words passing across the mirror
of my mind I will feel as though somehow
this should not be as it is,
that I have somehow slightly deviated
from the path I must surely have had reserved.

And then I will shower,
still not thinking of this,
but under the warm water,
a new day’s beginning,
I will feel a sense of hope and general well-being,
undeserved perhaps, but unrecognized as such,
and so will I move on.

 

———————————————————————-

Mister Chu believes that he is apart; unto himself. A belief he shares with almost everyone there’s been or will be. Earmarked in living and not yet to die. Likely to do better. To be recognized, embraced, encouraged. Flattered for good reason. Excused.

He knows this is not the case, but he believes it is, and he knows he believes. Between these things, within them, is the meaning of his life as it will be lived to its conclusion.

And at the end there will be no outcome and no one else will know and it will not matter and the world will not miss him or mourn him, nor need him, nor call him back, even if there were some means to do so. There is not. And he knows this.

And yet he will wake in the morning, a few hours from now (for it is already night inside his head and he sleeps as we speak) and he will have forgotten the greater matter of his ordinary self.

And he will smell the sour milk and feel his stubbed toes, the coarse towel cloth robe, old and worn, against his aging skin, and without words passing across the mirror of his mind he will feel as though somehow this should not be as it is, that he has somehow slightly deviated from the path he must surely have had reserved.

And then he will shower, still not thinking of this, but under the warm water, a new day’s beginning, he will feel a sense of hope and general well-being, undeserved perhaps, but unrecognized as such, and so will he move on.

 

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