I, Me, Alone

Let me tell you about the people

who lived here before


they did not suffer the way you did

their stories were not as interesting

they did not have dire circumstances

they never faced hardships

they had never lost

anyone they loved

they never weeped

they never married

they never loved

they never been loved

they never died

they never died alone

they never regretted anything

they have no lessons for you

for they were never human

like you

they never opened their eyes

they never rose up

to the morning light

lost and confused about who they were

and where they were going

in fact, no one in your current world

suffers the way you do

or experiences life the way you do–

you are the pinnacle of all pain

your story is by far sadder

by far happier

than any story on the planet

no, the universe

because the universe is really

that small

and maybe everyone is far more interesting

and you live a boring existence

staring into a window of dreams

in the palm of your hand

your beautiful hand

so intricately made with every line

with purpose, yet with vacancy–

empty are the hands of humanity

for they lift nothing

point to nothing

and lay bare by our sides–

you use that empty hand

in the quiet of the black-star night

to pick up a book

a journal or memoir of one’s past

a life fitting into a two hundred page binding

the same way your life

could be bound

to summarize “you” in two hundred pages,

and as you read the first sentences

you hear the muffling sounds

of arctic foxes

laughing and chasing each other,

perhaps you hear

some people parking their cars

and carrying groceries into their houses

and you realize

you may not be alone after all.

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