A meta-life, a life about life;
Reassuring, were it to be used as some kind of lesson.
Nevertheless, a life that requires reassurances,
that experiences only in terms of lessons.
Only drawn to the whos, whys, and hows -
To know things unknowable.
Neverminding the wheres and whats,
Now means nothing to a how-why-whoer -
Only in how it alters the hypothesis,
How now affects my working theory.
‘Now’ matters proportionate to the degree in which
It can be removed from the present.
Damn Aristotle! Damn Bacon and Descartes!
Why must my life be an experiment (a non-repeatable one at that)?
Why must my life have a thesis statement, supporting paragraphs, a conclusion?
Why have I been apprenticed to dissecting the dead, admiring only the crypt that I build for them?
(There I go with the whys again.)
I’m only a person to the extent to which I can describe myself;
tweeting my individuality as glibly as possible.
I only have who-ness when I know what it means to be me.
Meanwhile, knowing a single who is impossible
(Sorry Horton, sorry Cindy-Lou).
Thoughts about thoughts, feelings about feelings,
Thoughts about feelings about feelings about thoughts.
When did I last taste? When did I last look?
When did the where-what-when become a means and not the end?
“You know, I bet those Golden Tickets
Make the chocolate taste terrible.”
What can I say? Subtlety is not my strength.
The first iteration of this poem started out last year as a long-winded blog post entitled “Self-Indulgent Autopsychoanalysis.” So be grateful that the above is all that I subjected you to.