The month is wrapping up. Not that it matters much.
Dates in boxes.
Pages with pictures.
Calendars quantifying our existence.
Making other days more important than others.
Conditioning us for deadlines and expectations,
so that we conform.
Time is a construct.
I am not 47.
I am one and I am one-hundred.
I’m yesterday and I am tomorrow.
I am now.
Tired from a long day of doing what needs to be done
to play the part and participate
in this world that I’ve created.
Get with it, Stevens. Stay on the up-and-up. Just say what they want to hear.
But that’s hard to do when you know it’s not the truth.
And it’s funny to think about
people getting so locked in their own nonsense that
something as simple and cumbersome as my writing
cause one to turn away.
Because I don’t share the Paradigm.
Whatever that means.
I know that we need to be good and just and understanding.
I know that we spend most of our lives doing the opposite.
I know that small steps in the right direction can set the world into a gentle collapse.
One that leaves a man breathless and dumfounded on the floor.
And I know that if he’s gotten there, although I’m supposed to, it’s okay if I don’t help him