Thats how I’ll always remember some people.
Trading paper for a book on philosophy,
Talking about the metaphysics of a joint,
Licking more paper.
Do you think I’m an escapist?
– my paper-licking friend asks me.
(Here I think of Allen Ginsberg)
This is what my answer will always be:
If it means you’re not deluded about what is required of you,
Then I don’t think you are.
I remain firmly planted in the middle of the train track.
Like my grandfather,
Who, when he was younger,
Would wait until the train was metres away
Before he dove into the sea below.
Diplomacy is a secret thrill.
It allows me room to choose something other than
On Train or Not On Train.
See, I choose the sea.
Someone might think it a weakness,
That of indecisiveness,
Or a lack of courage or perception.
But I don’t want any of it.
Not the misguided optimism,
Not the disillusionment,
Not the self-righteousness.
None of it.
Does that make me an escapist?
Maybe they’re just jealous of you,
Of your ability to forget for a moment,
To re-invent and recreate.
It is a possibility.
Because it’s pretty damn hard
To feel like it’s not going to get better this way, Unless.
That we’re stuck in this rut forever, Unless.
Unless we learn to pack all of it
In a rice sack full of salt.
And learn to laugh at it.
At how ridiculous it is,
How incredibly imaginary.
Laugh at it,
Until we’re in a place where we can laugh at our own deconstructions.
At how irrelevant they are,
How impossibly immaterial.
And with hasty accomplishments and receding hairlines,
Acknowledge that we’re here to stay,
And that the world is probably so much simpler
Through the eyes of those I’ll always remember as