I am made from my inspirations and from my rebellions
From my influences
and as well
my aversions
From my hopes and from my defiances
I emulate to fit in and misdirect to stand out
And in those subconscious efforts and conscious decisions
does the slurry of a man exist
that is me
—
stoically oozy in the inertia I fabricate with intent and will
to land somewhere on a person and purpose
that has my name
That befits it
That defines the soul that answers to that name
and in whose body it wakes up in
every single day
And lives in
and must live with
in the messy, amorphous idea of
who I am
what I am
who I had hoped to be
what I’ve wound up being instead compared to that
and what I might be
eventually
I am still and ever both my hopes and heartbreaks
,
both my optimisms and disappointments
of me and of the world
,
of me in this world
,
and of my own world in it
—
the only world I’ll know
As my identity
continues to take sometimes clearer shape
my soul
can still agitate
like laundry
in a washer
(
Man, if only it could spin dry and return it
clean and warm
)
My story is continually authored by a self-doubting autobiographer rediscovering himself in fits and
,
at times
,
startling new self-discoveries
It isn’t possible for me to accurately recount the subjective memories of my life
and it probably won’t be me who writes that last chapter
That will be the purview of those who most believed
—
or humored
—
my partial misrepresentations
It is these inevitabilities that
finally register as definitive absolutes
I am Schroedinger’s existentialism
:
both dead and alive
visible outside a box
a life lived whole yet remembered in parts
,
exaggerated and contradicting
,
even to me
,
and in death likely remembered and recounted in yet more
trite downplayings and gossipy embellishments
,
if I’m lucky
—
and if I could call that luck
Age and humility has allowed me to find peace with my noisy past
(
s
)
and present
(
s
)
with the ninety percent inside me that no one ever knows
and the ten percent outside of me that is still
stageshow and traveling circus and anxiety
Even the truest story of me would be un-grabable whispers and fog
,
speculation and even yet fiction remaining
It won’t write or read pure or remotely complete
of how I live
(
d
)
Big picture best is
...
I live ready
—
though never rushing or eager
—
to embrace the
happily-ever-afterlife
(
A post-mortum that
,
allowed by its own definition
,
may be nothingness itself
)
... Boy, isn’t life something
?
kerry alaric cheeseboro · 12/29/2022