Where is it.

I'm quite certain I've spent all of all of my life searching for that place of sustainability. As though, somehow, there's this lifelong nirvana waiting somewhere that I've missed out on. Alas, the inevitable mirage. There are these minuscule moments in time of new or wonder or awe! The view from an airplane where you're above the sky and the sun screams through a sea of clouds. Or an intensely met goal that leads elation. The high octane bar scene with its high on life. An artist's high? Yep, tried it. Dream world? About as close as it gets.

But really, where is it?

In being heard? If you've ever spent time alone with the local bar flies, you soon find you're a walking, breathing, ear. EVERYONE wants to be heard. So you listen, ask questions, be a good hearted, empathic person; but when you open your mouth, you're immediately drowned out by the drunken slurs. Folks begging, pleading, dying to be important. Their 'best' stories of grandeur roll effortlessly from tongues, waiting to be congratulated for times long gone.

Everyone wants to be somebody, or be special and yet it's clear this isn't the place to do it.

Martyr mothers or great mothers, either way under appreciated. Amazing lover moves onto another. The successful husband on his way to the upper class; laid off. Actors, celebrities, artists, musicians, under privileged, unfed, unwanted. We're all the same.

And the halfway to a voice box alcoholic who can't read or write hanging over my shoulder as I write? He tells me to "put him into my book." His name is Uncle Buck and he's crazy. Or so he says...

Everyone wants to be remembered.

Cooking dinners, folding laundry, clean this, suds that, who cares? Until it isn't being done. Where's the purpose in a life that seems to hold some crazy potential for fulfillment? It's not sustainable, just moments passing in time. It's in the past, often far before noticed as a future.

I'm not exempt. I find very few that actually listen when I speak. I'm not exempt. I have something to say. I want to be heard. The problem is, I know what it is, I just don't know how to say it and fight the ever present fear of deaf ears.

The disappointment of another failure to achieve the unachievable gone by. Dreams wash away the remnants until morning's amnesia dawns and the pursuit begins again... 

the idea of

Just say it's so
from far away
or on the phone
this or that
desire
wish
remorse

the idea of

When skin
becomes flesh
and distance
presence
nothings left
for it was

the idea of

Appetite satiated
in imaginary life
it was already given
in the mind
and

the idea of