Reflections

One of the hardest parts of addressing my mortality has been the urge to justify my existence. A strong pull towards justification has preoccupied me these past weeks. I think constantly about how an outsider would judge me, my choices, my actions. I wonder if I have lived well enough. I rack up every accomplishment I can think of on a list of reasons why I should be spared from death, reasons I deserve just a little more time.

I also think of every misfortune I have already survived and wonder how it could ever balance out fairly before I die. What amount of joy is enough to say I have lived a good life? How much love do I deserve? How many bouts of laughter am I worthy of? How much time do I have left? Is it enough time to justify contemplating death? Am I moving through life fast enough or too fast? Will I get another chance tomorrow?

I have spent days now lost in thought, putting myself on trial.

I don't know what would be enough. I don't know if I will ever feel satiated with life. I feel angry, blood hot with rage at the idea that my life might be defined by years of needless suffering in an indifferent world. Every time I start to feel rage at the causes of my sorrows, though, I find myself cooling off quickly with somber thoughts of those whose miseries are more burdensome than I can imagine. What right do I have to outrage? There are worse circumstances than mine all over the world, and those who have already run out of chances to see another sunrise and sunset. So, I steel myself and hope that I have done enough and accept what I cannot change. Struggling against the tides of time will only exhaust me, so I might as well live each day as peacefully as I can and save my strength. I'll hug my family and friends a little closer.

The Idea of Love

Artwork by Midori Friedbauer

The idea of love

It twists itself into a coil

Wrapping itself up into a hard

KNOT, a solid // heavy bulging

cluster pushing up on

the heart from below //

the abdomen

where the butterflies search

finding nourishment // human sorrow

ONCE rooted,

it sprouts black tendrils

hot and sharp, digging

slowly into the network

of nerves bundled // on the little airlocks

that sit on each side of the human engine

// Leaving little room for breath,

and plenty for bile

---

This is a poem about how I felt when someone who hurt me told me afterward that they loved me. It was a confusing and painful experience. It was an alien, violent caricature of love. I subverted the idea of the butterflies one gets in their stomach when they have loving feelings for someone. Instead the butterflies feed on human sorrow like vultures, and the idea of love takes physical manifestation as a malevolent force that attacks one's vital organs.