This is the hidden clause in
my contract with life:
that in this limited time
unspecified that I find
some meaning in meaninglessness
and strive to add something (anything)
to the noble cause of living.

But then, who can promise
such a thing?
What can I add to this great
circle that goes on and on
beyond all living and all
life in this futility and possibility?

Today I have hidden how I feel.
Do I dare admit it to myself?
That despite all that I should give
and everything I have, where is
my will to add on?

This weight is hard to
carry like the splintered cross
dragged up the street of life.

I read the clause and it asks too
much, for perhaps I want to be,
be just me, existing in this body
among the flowers and trees,
alive without the pull of performance,
without giving anything back at all.

 

6/8/2025