Breathe in a Way

Prose poem

July 8, 2015

Flicker of static constantly.
I stare at the glare, waiting for things to make sense, waiting for lighting to hit, waiting for the day where contradictory information is unified.
It won’t and I know it.
I won’t change, my epiphany will not change the world, will not shatter expectations beyond human understanding, nor move a cockroach an inch.
I transfer nitrogen and oxygen through my system of blood and lungs, and out comes toxic gases that will kill me.
Good luck surviving when even the act of surviving will kill you.
And so we wait for flowers to open, for cataclysms to unravel. It’s a simple wait, one we do willingly, knowingly, expectantly, forcibly.
Call us stupid, we call us persistent.
Walking down our path we see dangers in myriads, so we stride through in our best gait—not because nothing will hit us but because we want to look good doing it.
And so we stare at a flicker of static, at a cosmic tunneling of knowledge, at a wormhole we don’t know where goes.
Maybe we hope it’ll change us. Maybe we hope it becomes unnecessary. But maybe we just don’t care about doing anything else.
Me; I just hope that something good will come of me talking about it. Don’t really expect the world to change. Don’t really expect the cockroaches will care. I hope we will.
If nothing else, I keep breathing, keep being a nuisance to the air around me, keep changing molecules and messing with balanced systems that I didn’t design.
I do keep changing, too.
Maybe something good’ll come of that.


I do enjoy the sharpness of this one, even though I'm not even completely sure what it's about. I mean, sure I get the gist of some of it, but there are parts that might not be perfectly clear. But I left them in as an interpretation thing. See if you agree, I guess.

It might seem really dark too, as if I'm saying that there's nothing you can do but die... but that's not really what I think I mean by it. It's more of a... contemplation over the fact that we're fickle.