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I don't know if I'm just calloused to the notion and thus it comes with lack of fervor or if anymore it's just so deeply buried.
But it's nearly ever-present, though known to wane in times eclipsing pain, but comes creeping back in all the time surrounding.
Too long to think of who I am or where I'm at or worst of all to wonder or have one inquire where I'm going.
When all my life I’ve avoided ever knowing.
As growing up they talk in maps and when you've come of age they ask of you to pick a place in which your heading.
But your every inclination is to avoid these destinations, each as destitute and void as they are many.
The soulless, vacant, empty land of plenty.
But voicing this incites the same old song and dance to your complaints and wants to know your preferences and druthers.
But any spoken alteration doesn't jive with their summations as it doesn't fit with this cog or another.
Thus you or I we find ourselves as separate and though surrounded as completely alone and ever-longing.
Not for someone but for some thing to deliver us from all the pain of waking seeing thinking breathing living.
Unknowing if we've hardened or just hidden all the signs and songs of all the things we sang when we were crying.
With no beacon but the promise of our dying.

Theodore Gliessman, July 2017