The road to “i am sorry”.
/Part one./
There is just something to be said about the old ways that new people have, or how the old people want to make way for their new paths.
There is also something to be said about how the knotty nodes, those intersections are met in the minds of those actively in conversation, in mid-sentence, or in the expressed insights of their thoughts, in mid-flight, in the space of things, that are not said.
We can say things out loud, and not say anything at all.
And we can sit there in silence, and say more than anyone else in the room.
What are words, when they mean nothing – and what are words when they mean more than they are meant to, uttered by someone else entirely.
Saying i love you to someone, at the right time is more than saying it at the wrong time, i once surmised.
But after all these years of attempting to understand in silence what that word meant, it dawns on me, that it doesn’t need a contextual envelope.
It’s not a letter.
It’s four words:
Hey,
I
Love
You.
It doesn’t need a container,
It doesn’t need a map,
It doesn’t need a stamp.
It doesn’t need embossing, or a seal of an emoji -
It doesn’t make a sound.
Maybe
when we grow up,
We can intend ourselves into
The kind of people who do,
Say it,
Will it,
Profound it,
In the way everyone does,
Should,
Would, and
Do.
Maybe we won’t grow up,
Maybe we always wondered how,
It shouldn’t but it made it across the chasm
When we thought it,
And it escaped us, and we can’t
By any court of law, take
Any of it back.
Not now,
Not later,
Not with a warrant,
Or with the best human rights lawyer,
Nor restraining orders,
It is not encased in the people,
Because it is something that
Makes each one who you are,
It is what you are, and that isn’t shared or owned or cast out or published.
It just is.
And we are driven to discomfort by
Its staring at us,
On the daily.
How rude.
This thing that we feel inside…
Eked out by our daily extrusions
On being human, (like Maugham),
Or on being not our best, when our best
Becomes it.
How rude,
This being someone else, outside of ourselves.
How it makes us
Not normal.
How rude.
Why would anyone celebrate it?
Flowers, chocolates, dinner and wine.
It’s as if it would go away, or stay.
When we wish it to.
Utter madness.
(Why can’t the law contain it?
Why can’t we, when we will ourselves to be,
What it isn’t,
This evolving rudeness.
This chasm of inhuman humanity,
Is above all, hubris to us all.)
There isn’t order,
There it is.
Three words, eight letters, and one uttering moron.
Is all that’s left of the poor soul that
Succumbed to its behest.
Once again,
Victim to its grandest plan,
(Of no plan),
No shape or form, and
Inhabiting the most
Innocuous
Space
Inside.
Thank you,
Blinkered
Mobile phone,
For shutting (it)
down.
