Wishes wistfully swaying, singing

Like children, cheering, cacophony

Like elders looking down on us, enticing

Waiting for when we least expect anything

Then lurching from the darkness to restore:

Like a check in the mail, a lost friend checking in

Or anything good that happens time and time again

A positive swirl in the (sometimes) otherwise bleak world

A fresh perspective, an excitability for life

A vacation, a good dream

Happiness, blatantly

I’m so surrounded by life… and just often feel so dead inside. The city thrives, my mind wanders, days feel too short to be worthwhile, hours seem like seconds, my room is a dump, and I feel like a swamp creature. This is depression running rampant – a distortion mechanism and burden of the brain bestowed upon humans for the blessing of consciousness. Since we can rationalize, we sometimes rationalize ourselves into dark, small spaces. Remember (anyone who needs this) – there’s a whole world out there.

Sorry for being so sporadic and posting intermittently without my normal formatting, alas… had a passing thought on the highway on the weekend, here to share.

I was looking at a tree on the side of a highway and thought: imagine that we found a tree could consciously unsink its roots from the ground. That the tree, being alive, was autonomous… would we ask it why it kept rooted and even cared about the world for so long? Why not let the foundation of the world slip, in such a careless world?

maybe we’d ask the tree

its history, to see the sonderness

of the tree. All of the lives it has witnessed come and go, the accidents it has seen, the disputes between drivers, and the death, repair, and rejuvenation of the seasons.

We might begin to stop, and spectate, and see that all around us are living beings. That we live in a living world. We don’t live in our minds.

It strikes me odd that the human race, inevitably, has categorized, demonized, condescended, and degraded people based on skin color, sexual orientation, gender, etc., as though one race, sexual orientation, or gender is somehow the default “human” and the other is “alien”. When, in our every day, with our opposable thumbs and biologically similar extremities to the aliens we produce in Hollywood, we haven’t come to the recognition that we – yes WE – are likely the aliens. All of us. Aliens to this planet, for all we know and maybe the mission that eludes us is this simple recognition – that despite our external differences, our internal similarities and our external similarities far outweigh anything different.

If only, stripped of our clothing and our cultural fare, we might see, with our eyes, hearts, oddly shaped sexual organs, and our pudgy, protruding bellies that we are alien, even without being from another planet. All aliens. Aliens to each others’ languages, nations, cultures, and religions at least. All on this crazy planet. All fervently in love & hate; whichever we so choose.