What It Is




This is what it is.
This is where we are.

It’s not what we expected. But it’s what we’ve been given to work with.

Splendid sunsets and war zones.
Soft faces and ranting diatribes.
A pissed-off teenager with a Twitter account.
Mayhem and innovation.
Light and rain.
Pleasure and pain.
We roll out another morning,
hunting under sofa cushions for spare change,
playing chicken with the gas gauge one more day,
deciphering secrets long after the fact.
Tough love. Empty nest. Twists in the trajectory.

Who knew it would be like this?

The dream is yet to be realized.
Unknowns, vaster than the tiniest, specific detail.
We float blindly.
Still, a single cell can make all the difference.
A small pebble can start the rumble.
Either way, we’re making it up as we go.
You know this, right?

Every god damn day, we square off with the mystery.
The veil is impossibly thick. We forget the ambiguity of it all.
We plan and act accordingly.
And then she reminds you.
A tumble. A crack. The train you missed.
The last look he gave you, before he drove away,
after you punched him (It was a long time coming).
The minute he cried, your long-held suspicions were confirmed.

Truth, finally, replaces longing.
Hope skips off with her dim lover.
Pity pulls up a seat.

We have no idea what the hell is going on.
But we can do this, dear one.
Even though the madness sprawls unchecked,
Even though love takes a backseat to self-preservation,
Even in that moment –equal parts chill and relief– when you realize
that they sold you something phony.
It was never going to happen that way.
And you can’t protest
because it was the same story
that was told to them.

We can do this.

There is no more crap to cut through.
This is what it is.
This is where we are.
Free to survive as we see fit.
Here and now.
All the wiser,
With nothing to prove,
Nobody to impress,
No more rungs to reach for.

Exactly as we are, we roar.

And that, dear one, is more than enough.