What is it about our failures that so fascinates?
Triumph is rarely so beautified as
trampled, beaten, exhausted-
but never dispirited,
no, never that...
and to give up?
That too can be part of the beautiful
the divine release of self into the unknowable, unstoppable sea of ennui.
We embrace our errors, our missteps, and mistakes,
we hold and kiss and whisper sweet nothings into the ear of despair and fuck our deepest regrets
burying or being buried into and by these private torments
Does she love me?
A dying breath and our lives flash.
And of all our years,
not a kindness crosses our singularly miopic vision
Only the slights,
real and imagined, these realer still,
it is here that we define
and flagellate
and weep, bitterly, endlessly.
So few of us worthy of paradise.
How did it ever come to be an act of such unforgivable hubris to believe that we are good-
that we are not worthy of paradise
when we are indeed the very reason for its existence?
Why do we spend time ceaselessly, mechanically,
fucking our hurt
when it’s God we should joyfully, endlessly fuck-
fuck with the terrible zeal of desire and lust and forgiveness and erotic redemption.
Every moment stolen
a thousand stories in a thousand storied breaths
and still we deny the miracle-
still we trudge
and shuffle
and eventually we close our eyes entirely,
grateful for the passing of another day.
An abandoment into end,
a desire in all of us to halt, for a moment at least,
the miracle
and not be
so damnably here
-surrounded-
laid siege to by the exhaustive battery of
unknowbable being,
of unrelenting mystery.
And still,
for all of it,
I can not believe.
