The Land of Here

Me rambling.

If these walls could walk
would they walk away
to provide a skeleton for someone else’s life?
To watch another girl sleep and dress and eat cookie butter out of the jar?
There are of course millions of more interesting people to observe
and I don’t assume that these grey, peeling walls chose me.
But how is it that I found myself between them in particular?
That I am encased in this particular life?
In this particular time
a time that I have a complicated relationship with because
I am irresponsibly nostalgic and an old soul and a critic
in silent mourning over the way things are.
Chasing the nebulous concept of fairness
and trying to resist the sparkle of utopia.
But I know that this is also a time
that features clean water and beach bikes and dance music and you.
For this and thousands of other reasons I’m lucky.
So lucky that it makes me sick.
Sick because I did nothing to deserve these good things and neither did those who have enjoyed none of them.
And I know it’s beyond my control and of no practical use to think about
but I don’t know how to unsee it.
Besides, many thoughts serve no practical use and who says they need to?
I choose to mull over the fact that I could have been a farmer in Hungary
or an insect preserved in amber
or a stroke of orange,
instead of whatever color I am,
on the mosaic of many lives
that we are all painted on.
A mosaic that could not be more detailed and varying than it is.
Or could it?
Is it far more vast and changing than a person can understand?
I already feel overwhelmed by the magnitude and variation of what I can see in front of me
so of course there are things far beyond my comprehension.
I mean, I can barely come to terms with the fact that I am here.
And yet I am here
likely only once
which scares me.
But at least I have a roof over my head
and these walls.