...On Poetry

Babel

We surround ourselves in mythical worlds—the dreams of others, long dead. They shroud our barbarity—the essence of pain and violence and lust that cores our evolution. We play games concocted by dreamers—that assuage our boredom—that give us respite from the tug of war and death and heartbreak. Each new generation of dreamers pulls on these flights of fancy as they do clothes—shields to shelter us from the drudge of years. Some dream of new fashion, new armor, others of burning it all down—taking us back to the substance of our lives—to the base realm of humans as apes—bent on creation and destruction—a cycle of environmental metaphysics—manipulation of destiny and passion and words.

Rarely do we ask, why? Why should this all continue? Why do we love layers of falsehoods and joyous deceptions? Because they keep us warm at night and during the long hours of day. If not, we would certainly kill each other until the fields were awash in bones and ash. All this because we are floating the perfect distance from the sun. Because we tell ourselves we have purpose—that we have logic—that we can create theorems and rhythms and piece together an understand of why. That we matter.

It seduces us and drives us forward. Because we need to paste mud over our broken hearts. Because we lust for the unattainable. Because we hallucinate over love we can never have—objects and titles we think will give us ecstasy—a higher plane of being. We make idols to worship—fragile ones made of powdered glass and wisps of straw. We build them higher and higher, our own personalized towers of Babel—lifted onto pedestals and positioned behind glass—dreams made to fall, to crumble, to bury, and to be forgotten.

We are cowards of flesh and marrow. We are creatures of lies and perversions.

Because we dare not live any other way.