My life is a mess and I’m not sure what to do. I’m forever searching, but never a breakthrough. I wish there were some way that I could assure myself of what lies ahead, and find comfort in that wisdom, but I break apart instead. What traumas have we all not endured? One would think that by now at least most would be cured. The curse of the living is no peace, and no rest. The curse of the dead is that’s all they have left. It’s a beautiful thought to be done with it all, but there’s no way to get back over that wall. In my mind I am torn between peace and my life. I have to remember my daughter and wife. The saddest part is that I’m losing them too. My anger and frustration drive wedges between us. And that’s not fair to them—it’s not even fair to me. They don’t understand. I don’t understand. Why is it that some power entrusted me with my daughter’s command? I am only a man. I do the best that I can. I think, and act, and do, but I don’t have a plan. I might as well be leading them to the slaughter. A man with no plan—how could he raise a daughter?!
But this helps. An escape to nature is exactly what I needed. I already feel a little less impeded. There’s something about looking death in the face—an easy task in this place—and telling it no. No! Hell no, I won’t go! I’ve come too far in this race to quit. And yeah, I may be a little slow—others may pass me and speed down the road, but I’ll take my time—and at the end I’ll know that I have given everything, every essence of my soul, just to watch my little girl grow.
I’m going back home. I never really wanted to leave, but I had to figure out how to put that heart back on my sleeve. The power of owning who I am is greater than having any damn plan.
A Poet’s Qualm 