Looking back
Another life...
Somewhen else, where the people I met weren't the people I have. Where I, me, lived another life. Where I never lost my naivete, my innocence preserved in the bliss of ignorance. Is knowing better than not knowing, if you never know that you don't know? Knowing life, knowing people, knowing and understanding.
I could have children by now, 7 or 8 years old, clamouring for my attention, pulling each other's hair, grazing their palms, teary-eyed and pacified with a lolly-pop and my warmth. Am I sitting somewhen else deciding I'll have to get the kids to watch Planet Earth on Sunday's re-run?
I'm married, to Deborah or Joanna, from accounting probably. And I work for a company that has an accounting, and different departments, some in different buildings. I work at a desk that's my desk, because it has my keepsake and my photos, just like derek's has his keepsake and his photos, and Geoff's has his keepsake and his photos, and Oliver's and Ben's, all our own, row after row. And we earn enough to add to the house, to take the family for meals, to go out occasionally for a meal or drink with friends from the company, when her parents or mine are able to look after the children.
But I know no different, and so I am happy, I am busy.
I play squash with Bob from Sales once a fortnight, it's Deborah's suggestion (or Joanna's), to keep me fit, but I've always been half decent at racquet games so me and Bob actually get along. We go for a drink or two afterwards, and he tells me about his latest conquests - he's my age, but still single, living the bachelor's life. I let him think I'm envious, and I am sometimes, but really I know I'm happy, and I pity him a little for the whole of life that I know, that he has never had. He's an old school friend of Joanna's (or Deborah's) and I suspect they used to date, but she always laughs that off. He's pretty much my best friend, and he's around a lot but we all get along, him and the family, so it's cool. I don't begrudge him a little touch of what makes me so content.
So content, even with the frustrations and the arguments, because they don't count, not really. If I knew much of words I might say they counterpoint, they contrast, the shadows make the light brighter. But I'm not much of one for shadows, I just skip over them like puddles.
What I don't know, doesn't hurt me, and so I am happy. I understand the world in a different way. Does that make it a lesser way? Does that make my happiness mean less?
I never meet the boi Xero. He never shows me the world, or the truth of people and hearts, or the words that bind those worlds together. But I am happy, does it matter?
Looking back, from one world to endless others, what possibilities lie behind you?
What possibilities lie before you?
Somewhen else, where the people I met weren't the people I have. Where I, me, lived another life. Where I never lost my naivete, my innocence preserved in the bliss of ignorance. Is knowing better than not knowing, if you never know that you don't know? Knowing life, knowing people, knowing and understanding.
I could have children by now, 7 or 8 years old, clamouring for my attention, pulling each other's hair, grazing their palms, teary-eyed and pacified with a lolly-pop and my warmth. Am I sitting somewhen else deciding I'll have to get the kids to watch Planet Earth on Sunday's re-run?
I'm married, to Deborah or Joanna, from accounting probably. And I work for a company that has an accounting, and different departments, some in different buildings. I work at a desk that's my desk, because it has my keepsake and my photos, just like derek's has his keepsake and his photos, and Geoff's has his keepsake and his photos, and Oliver's and Ben's, all our own, row after row. And we earn enough to add to the house, to take the family for meals, to go out occasionally for a meal or drink with friends from the company, when her parents or mine are able to look after the children.
But I know no different, and so I am happy, I am busy.
I play squash with Bob from Sales once a fortnight, it's Deborah's suggestion (or Joanna's), to keep me fit, but I've always been half decent at racquet games so me and Bob actually get along. We go for a drink or two afterwards, and he tells me about his latest conquests - he's my age, but still single, living the bachelor's life. I let him think I'm envious, and I am sometimes, but really I know I'm happy, and I pity him a little for the whole of life that I know, that he has never had. He's an old school friend of Joanna's (or Deborah's) and I suspect they used to date, but she always laughs that off. He's pretty much my best friend, and he's around a lot but we all get along, him and the family, so it's cool. I don't begrudge him a little touch of what makes me so content.
So content, even with the frustrations and the arguments, because they don't count, not really. If I knew much of words I might say they counterpoint, they contrast, the shadows make the light brighter. But I'm not much of one for shadows, I just skip over them like puddles.
What I don't know, doesn't hurt me, and so I am happy. I understand the world in a different way. Does that make it a lesser way? Does that make my happiness mean less?
I never meet the boi Xero. He never shows me the world, or the truth of people and hearts, or the words that bind those worlds together. But I am happy, does it matter?
Looking back, from one world to endless others, what possibilities lie behind you?
What possibilities lie before you?