You were a guru in denim,
Sitting cross-legged in your room,
That always smelled of incense-
From the gas station-
In your blue jeans with white knees,
As if you had been praying.
They called you a hippy,
Or a geek-
But I knew you for what you truly were-
The quintessential human-
WITH NO HOPE
Of catching anything.
As I was driving today
I heard a song that reminded me of you.
“you were my sweetest
In a strange breaking-
Of gender roles-
You were Delilah,
And I, Sampson.
I say I wear my hair short for convenience, but,
It’s really in tribute to you.
I look around and I see so much happiness in this world. Dogs playing in water, horses running for no known reason, their hooves thundering the earth. I see water tumbling, leaves bursting into green, responding to the sky. I see beautiful people, people who say that all they want is to be happy and to help others be happy in return. I see good listeners, natural leaders, and two beautiful people getting married.
But then I look beyond this first vision, and I see how little happiness really matters to the world. I see war and religion, fear and hate, and I don’t understand. Why stop happiness? Why kill? Why hate? I feel as if I’m sitting in the middle of a cyclone, roaring about me and I shout to the winds ‘MAKE ME UNDERSTAND. I WANT TO KNOW WHY!’ Garbled faceless screams answer me. They screams ‘economics, religion, scientific hoax’ and none answer my questions.
/>There are a thousand different voices screaming about their one true God. How can they all be right? And how can they hate me for not believing when there are far too many things to believe? I see people in love forced apart, people killed, poor getting poorer and the rich doing nothing, polluted streams, dying forests and I don’t understand any of it. They all roar at me, trying to make me understand. They fill my head with conflict until I can no longer listen and I clap my hands over my ears and scream, ‘SHUT UP! PRAY TO YOUR GODS AND KILL EACHOTHER, JUST LEAVE ME OUT OF IT!’ And then I hear one voice yelling at me, demanding to know why I don’t do something, rich as I am in my own little kingdom. They accuse me and demand to know why I don’t listen, why I don’t talk, why I hide. The cyclone whirls me along until I am part of it and someone else is standing in the middle, begging to understand, and when it is my turn to shout back, I will scream apathy.