What was it like…

Why do I, listening with enraptured awe, compare our differences as if that will justify (explain?) the way it all unfolded. Our lives, that is. What, pray tell, between you and I is so vast a destiny as to warrant a good (loved) life for you and a not (survived) life for me?

Am I inherently wrong?

There has to be a reason why some people who rise to the top are born to the circumstances that allows them to move so contentedly (confidently) and me (us, the ‘wrong’ ones) with so much challenge. What a difference random chance makes.

It can’t just be a random allotment that decrees many children will be born wanted and others, so many others, part and parcel of an unfulfilled human’s narrative of their own hurts. As we traipse across the stories of all those raised in less than what their need deserved, how can we justify denying anyone welcome?

I am on hiatus from being human, it feels too hard. Moving past resentment, not what I want to do. Why can’t I wallow and wail and tear at my hair that I had what I had and you had what you had and you don’t even see how all I could ever have wanted was that. What you had, what you have.

What I will endeavor to give, above all else.

Never will it be said of me, that I did not pour from a deep well of unending love for a child, children, others. All will feel wanted and worthy and welcome. None will check to see if they are performing the roles of rightness and ought to prove themselves to be in my/our space.

Sometimes it feels like, to stop doing, moving, fixing, rearranging, planning, being

…is to die. I am what I do not who I simply am. When the gaze turns inward and the flood lights spark, what is there to see except a cavernous room of unimportance and totally utter normalcy.

But…the world told me I was special

If I am special to one and not much more than useful to most, then that one is who I shall live for and towards. Someone was special to me once, and I in turn often one of a pack of burdens. Wildlings, we were without training in ways of being a real person, not raised up in the way of living correct except in the deeply shortcircuiting realm of introspection and ‘resilience’. Oh yay, the word of all words. Can I yield what I was denied?

I won’t say I could be who I am without how I was raised, but what was it like? To look back and know that it was good, say it was good indeed. And from good shall generally good be handed out? It must be nice…

But, from the tough and mucky mire of our misery and need shall absolute fullness and life pour and never stop. You will feel it all keenly and you will know what the value of this one, wild precious little hiccup is worth. Grateful and seeing…in spite of/ because of it all.

For I, being poor, inherit the world.