Purpose

It’s on the tip of the tongue, just beyond the edge of thought. That’s how it has felt for a long time in my life as a wonderer. There are times when conversations get down to the brass tacks of emotion: suddenly we’re talking about what we want out of life. Someone asks me how I feel or what I think and I say:

“I don’t know.”

They usually don’t believe me. Should I say that I’m sad? Should I say that I’m lost? It doesn’t change my answer. Occasionally a thought full of purpose will come along and convict the very world around me of sin and virtue and I’ll get caught in the wave. Here is what I’ve seen of purpose:

1. It hovers, poised to strike the contemplative conscious.

2. It is volatile to the same degree that its occupied mind is impatient.

Somewhere along the course of our thoughts a good many of us catch onto the habit of contemplation, but much more fail to learn patience. I am in both the former and latter categories, stuck in the throes of inconsistent thought like so many others. The other day I might have preached to you of love, enraptured by my theories of purpose. I may have called myself a Humanist and convinced you that there is gold in the hearts and minds of children and women and men, gold that we have made in the struggle for a serene sentience. I’d tell you this gold is a deep understanding, a loving kindness innate to all of us, and that it’s directed at ourselves and the world. But alas my mind is restless and I am on the ebb instead of the flow; purpose in my thoughts today is about as reliable as a radioactive isotope. I could perish as a miserable wreck, aching and weeping but for a reason. Also like so many others.

I’m going to write here a statement from me to you. I want you to know that it is the most sincere communication I have ever made in written words.

I love you. I hope you figure it all out and I forgive you if you never do.

Not

I

Air: crisp, humid, full of promise,
as a golden apple.
A slurry of cool coffee and cream
moistens the tongue. Caffeine diffuses.

Morning traffic on the interstate.
Into the west, through miserable
Nebraskan corn fields
and arid mountains beyond.

A sole companion rides along:
a knot of homesick
deep within the belly,
somewhat reassuring.

II

Dancing red and then violet
through waves of clear water,
the light brings life to night.
It seems out of place, as I.

And yet, in a blur of longing
I speed under sodium lights
into open arms of one
who once urged caution.

Words in the dark
so sincere, but unclear
with time and space.
A knot is unwinding.

III

In memory, furled cities unwind.
A golden sunset accompanies
buildings and water, as alcohol
accompanies blood and wit.

In the dead of another night,
mountains and lights reside by
a sleeping metropolis and nervous youth.
A drive for clarity turns murky.

Hope and dream delude, I wander
as a homeless stranger.
The knot is undone,
the rope is taught and fraying.

Notes

It’s not so much that I wish I was depressed, I just wish I had the right to be but then wasn’t.

Maybe all I want is to have someone to keep me company at night. Then when I’m stuck lying awake in the dark I can wonder what she’s dreaming about as her soft rhythmic breathing soothes me back into slumber. And in the day I can smile and love her and we can share our worlds and be happy.

Lately my want for this has been crippling. But that’s not what wanting does. Wanting makes you motivated; wanting leads you into a determined pursuit. It’s needing something and not getting it that slows you down.

Do I really need this? Am I really that weak and impatient? Or am I just paranoid of dying without it?

I always thought I was better than that, honestly.