Deux Cent

200.

I started writing things down ten years ago
because some part of me,
some admittedly overly dramatic and overly sensitive part of me,
needs to be indulged so I don't descend into an emotional madness
and do something patently
absurd.

I don't walk around otherwise
like the weight of the world hangs
heavily on me,
I am really rather jovial
I take care of myself
watch what I eat
notice the birds in the sky
feel moved by the miracle of genuine affection
and
clean the toilet weekly.

But when it gets quiet
and its just you and me,
I feel like I have to be honest.

I'm still waiting for that honesty to honestly manifest.

I suppose that, honestly, I'm not okay.
But I know that is hardly unique.
How can anyone be okay as we barrel toward inescapable
and certain
death?

In light of that knowledge,

things could be much
much
worse.