It’s not fair, is it? How we have to do the laundry every week. How we have to shower every day (or every three days if you work from home). How we have to do the dishes, over and over, only to make them dirty again in an hour. It’s not fair how sad we are. How afraid we get when we’re happy - because it all comes back around.
Everything is hard! whines the child. Everything is hard sighs the adult. The mature thing to do, the refined practice, is to breathe out the day, wheeze out the dark, while the soul is torn apart and made stronger for it. Each tear and rip and biting injustice that makes you want to stamp your feet and ball your fists and cry out, if you can keep it inside, makes you more of an adult. Do we age as our telomeres shrink? Or as our soul wears down? Rubbed raw and smooth like jeans hugging thighs, desperate to stay favored. Desperate to look young. We can pull it off less and less each year. It’s your eyes, you know.
It’s unfair that I am happy to be here and sad to be in this head. Is it manic to feel so good it makes you antsy? To feel so good it hurts right here in your chest? There’s a bird in there and I punch my sternum to quiet it down. I think I’m starting to dent.
I regret to inform you, but if you are reading this
No, not fair!
I regret to inform
No, not nice!
I regret
Stop it!
Sorry that’s not what I meant. I shouldn’t have passed judgment. I am here to inform you
that if you are reading this
then you are here.
Good.
With me.
Good.
And… other people as well?
Probably. No yeah for sure.
Alright. Well we’ve gathered here today, across these days and across these tables, to acknowledge that this shit is not fair.
Not even a little bit.
But it’s good to be with you anyway. You are not a coward if you run away. Ok I’ll be brave. I am not a coward. But it’s good to be with you. So good it hurts.
