what are we actually doing

WHAT ARE WE ACTUALLY DOING

but forming relationships and
learning and
 caring about laws and policies
and norms and customs
that shape our everyday lives and interactions?

What are we doing except
making the world
and moving in and within it to find out how it
speaks and
smells and
feels and
hurts?

What are we doing except being masochists seeking out pain, albeit subconsciously,
by getting ourselves into the same situations
over
and
over
and
over again
but still doing it because it reminds us that
we're real and alive and vulnerable?

What are we doing except what we think we probably should
to get to where we think we want to be
while trying to love and
nurture and
care for the place we are
right now?

What are we doing except getting lost in the tidbits of
being
that have no meaning or bearing on our realities only to be
suddenly,
cyclically,
and repeatedly reminded that maybe that was a small detour and a wasting
- or maybe just mere passing -
of time?

What are we doing except seeking out others who are on and in our wavelength,
even if invariably we'll ride out that wave together only for a short time until
we find ourselves
anew in an environment we don't yet know
and one we may even try to forget
to make room for the ones that were more kind to our
ever loving,
ever resilient,
ever broken hearts?

What are we but trying and failing, trying and succeeding, getting it all wrong and learning what it is that we like
and what feels good
and what moves us

and sometimes
doing the opposite because

we're stubborn and
stupid and
blissfully unaware of how beautiful and fragile we all really are?

Grief

Once a moth was trapped in my vehicle.
It was dark
I was driving
It was raining
I
wasn't
thinking

I opened the window

it flew out and

probably
died

I have grieved it for
months

But it still
probably
died

It would have
any
way

one
day

But
I
Killed
It

I loved lady bugs

They are good luck

But what if you are five
and you are
not
thinking

And you are too scared to
touch it with your
small fingers
only
five
years
old

You pick up two sticks

Invention

You accidentally
kill
it

You
Killed
It

I have never
forgotten
the
lady bug

that

I
Killed

Imagine my grief
for things
I have killed
that did not
die

Or maybe were
not born

Dreams?