Sep 20
What's it like to love so quietly?
Does life have any meaning?
And how long before you get tired of thinking it does, daddy?
I hate to see you working every day, and everybody else can say that everybody else has their dues.
But everybody else ain't you.
And how can you not be a caricature.
A story more than a person.
Because everybody else is here, not knowing that they are.
What's it like to love so quietly?
For me. Why this lifetime and only lifetime.
Can't even know you.
Fathom. And If I do it'll be for another. My children.
If I live life with meaning how long before I get tired and throw away all my reasoning, a perturbed regret with no sight.
Will I be that for you?
Everybody is here.
Everybody is here.
There is no privacy in this labor.
Or needful love.
I don't imply or want to take it away. I am not a higher power.
But everybody is here and that makes us a caricature.
But there is no us. Just another.
My children and their linear other.