I Don’t Know Why

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

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I’ve wrestled with this animal for some time. Perhaps the reason is that there is no reason…or I could be mistaken. Either way.


I Don’t Know Why…


I’ve lived to be alone. I think I’m as gregarious as the next guy. I do know that in the quiet shadows of early morning my emotions have come crashing down over me like an unwelcome tsunami of consequence, ripping me from my moorings of day to day comfort in my relatively anonymous existence from time to time. Usually without preamble and without any inkling of remorse.


I’ll repeat. I don’t know why.  I’d like to think that it’s through no fault of my own.  But neither do I choose to delude myself.  We all chart our own course. And so we must accept that our own willful choices and deliberate decision making have considerable influence in the events that unfold in the path of our own life story.


Yeah, I’d like to scream angrily into the swirl of cosmic particles sprinkling down around me; “IT ISN’T MY FAULT!”, or better still, sift through the glitter of a dozen or a hundred past lifetimes here on the shore of one soul’s humanity and casually observe that this story is written upon the parchment of actions recorded lifetimes ago.


But even if the ebb of some past influences or predilections have intruded into this manifestation in an effort to manipulate consciousness into balance, there’s still free will. 


Whatever justification I might toss into the wind in my own defense, there’s always free will waiting to trump whatever spade might be played in protest. So be it.


So I admit that I chose my own undoing. I don’t deny that some invisible influences intruding from previous incarnations may have yielded some smidgin of gravity into my situation. But yeah. This is all on me.  I chose it. 


I look around at friends and acquaintances and wonder how I managed to deviate from the boilerplate existence stamped out millions upon millions of times over all around me in this generation.  Why does my template differ so much from that of my smiling peers? I don’t know.


But I pride myself a poet.  Whether that truth translates into anyone else’s belief system doesn’t concern me all that much.


Maybe I’ve written my character as the suffering artist.  In order to be connected to the universe in the ways and rhythms of artistic expressionist’s non-articulated harmony with the flow, I am suffered to deprive my perception and limited intellect from any attachment which might distract me from that purpose. But no.


Even that would wrest the causal qualities of the definitive performance from my own realm and relinquish them to some abstract divine deity responsible for meting out the ultimate justice or punishment for a chosen pattern of behavior or avocation.  I am a poet, therefore I must endure miseries and hardships of the most personal nature to qualify as such.  Rubbish. So why?


Does it even matter?!  I posit the problem a social shortcoming in my own character.  Likely enough.  There are no shortage of shortcomings  there, I assure you.  But at this point, I am poised to stay the course, not just out of habit, although there always is that nuisance of remaining in one’s comfort zone and whatnot.  No. Now I may maintain my motivation manifests of some bullshit magnanimity.  I willingly and willfully achieve separation from those whom I would spare the miseries and formalities associated with proximity at my passing. I’m doing all of this for YOU.


Now, THERE is a new age, tie-dyed, bongo beat, bullshit, cashmere coated cop-out if ever there was one.  But at least it brushes aside the repetitious chants of “I don’t know”, as well as the painfully pensive pondering “does it even matter?” and substitutes the definitive “For my own part, I don’t care” and “not in the least”. So at least there’s THAT.


So I guess it all boils down to “it is what it is”.


My life has not turned out as I’d planned.  Well, welcome to the club.  That my life’s patterns do not closely resemble the patterns spreading like ripples on the surface of a pond from all of those friends and strangers surrounding me, although this may inspire a modicum of interest, it is not really remarkable or worthy of note to any significant degree.


It is what it is.


Let’s just leave it at that and call it good.  Each river flows within its own banks.  The universe requires no justification to be as it is. It just is.


Peace. Out.






Submitted: October 12, 2021

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