Some strange movement: 2006

Up late, I rise reluctantly, groggy and a bit

grumpy. The depressive extremes of yesterday’s
emotions still echoing through me. I wish for a different

experience, fearing to repeat the recent past.

Often "my" sufferings seem so personal,
 objectionable,

 some inane reason.
Or lack thereof.

The habits of shame, depression and despair

so believable, so much more poingent than

any pleasure.

 Pleasure, that often seems, impersonal.

not unlike the belief of truth, bliss and joy that
Juxtapose my emergent awareness of existence.

I seek or gravitate toward the “good” all the while
Contrasting my suffering against the whole of humanity
All of my experiences feel so personal or conversely distant
This dialectic of seeking attention & approval,

or

not giving a fuck at all
From those I know & love or those

or the greater majority of those I don’t.
 
It seems

I mirror the world

albeit imperfectly.