Our constant breath reminds us that the music doesn’t always soothe
that our eyes do not always see the presented, as the thing before us
as the idea within us, it is nothing more than a wish, a dream…a millennium
of change all without our consent, or collaboration yet we continue
in our own way—as our tribes and communities encourage—and as we
resent that encouragement, chafe against that direction while complaining
always complaining that we have no support when it is that, that, that
which we live on, we are sustained by but we close eyes, hold hands
over ears, shut down—do nothing—and cry ourselves to sleep while people
around us look for signs of life, unsure whether to touch, to move because
without information we stop…we wait…we hesitate when hesitation kills
our ideas; motion and meaning are lost, never to be recovered…we sit and
watch ourselves do nothing and wonder why nothing changes, why what is
hurting harmful hasty and hazardous is still…and still again…the thing
about us we hate when the thig about us is that we don’t seem to care,
don’t seem to understand that we are us, we are me, we are you, we are
them and on and on and on until we are stars and galaxies spinning
forever…all driving toward that deep coldness of a dead universe…when
we already have that in ourselves right now…as long as we settle into a
cadence of an uncaring fascination with doing nothing.