The Land of Dead Ends
I’m feeling as beaten up
as a trashcan tonight and
I’ve only been up for a few
short hours. I’ve half a mind
to mercilessly delve into the
details of how I got from
there to here but as far back
as my memory will presently
take me I was still very much
a trashcan. Should I feel bad
or embarrassed because this
chitter-chatter is superficial?
That doesn’t mean that all
I’ve said is not but a hundred
percent accurate, plus—and here,
I’ll add the slightest bit of intrigue
by saying just between me and you—
I’m experiencing something now
that has come and gone a bit of
late: the inclination of “I’d rather
not talk about it.” About what?
you surely don’t even consider
asking, and it’s not so much out
of politesse, but it’s a characteristic
all too overly common among us
normal human folk; something I
used to lament in days that were,
and not so long ago, which is that
we just do not care. Now, I ask
something that is rhetorical, just
for the sake of bringing this whole
thing to a neatly wrapped dead end.
It’s a chicken and egg question, so
to speak. And that is, which came
first, us not caring, or us not having
the damnedest inclination whatsoever
of talking just a little bit about it,
whatever our individual “it” may be?
