In the Fleeting Moments
I seek out the unsure thing,
the uncertain, the fleeting moment,
for it is in those moments that I stare
into the mirror of myself.
I see myself reflect a thousand faces,
reject a thousand possible identities, and
slide into the skin of my own imagination.
In here, inside my skin, the one
I choose, no one can strip from me
the vanities I build around myself,
though they, too, are fleeting moments.
But it is in these fleeting moments
of what ifs and if onlys that I discover
the path that I alone must walk,
for all of life, despite the throng that
surrounds me, must be lived alone.
It is into the uncertainties of others
That I fling myself, embrace the
strangeness of the skin of another,
and find myself within.
In embracing change and rejecting
the fear of that which is different,
the prejudice that is the nemesis of
our race and yet the sustainer of it,
I find myself perched on a tightrope
of who I might become.
Sometimes, I wish that I could fall into
the mold built for me and follow the
throng with blind will-fullness – resisting
the temptation to be the same as those
around me requires a strength of will
that holds resolve in reserve.
I hate what society represents,
watching as the blind lead the blind
into further desolation, even as I try
desperately to lead them both back to land.
But my lack of sameness, my sight,
leaves them with an uncertainty they
cannot abide, and my desire to help them
wanes, slowly, replaced by a mounting
frustration at my own inability to knock
the blinders away and simply make them see.
I wish they could see the way they hurt
themselves, diminish their own potential by
refusing to acknowledge their own worth
because the idea of being different is so alien
that the uncertainty they cannot face lies in
the acknowledgment of their own self-identity.
I keep waiting, in desperate hope, for the world to
wake up and see the devastation that surrounds
them, and my soul cries every time I watch yet another
person ignore a homeless man on the corner of the
street, and I wish I had the means to help them,
even though I barely have the means to help myself.
I grow tired of the defensive edge in
the voices of others when the excuses
they give for failing to help heal the wounds
that run like rifts through humanity
fall flat to their own ears, but they don’t
recognize the flat tones, or dismiss the
flimsiness of their excuses without any
real thought to the harm they cause.
I hurt for people who have long since
failed to hurt for themselves, and I avoid
getting close to many people because I’m
afraid that I won’t be able to help them heal,
even though it’s “not my place” to heal their pain.
I see the truth of things that others miss or
fail to appreciate, the subtle shift that determines
whether a person can survive the insane place
this world truly is, and I have come to appreciate
the necessity of adapting to the uncertainties in life.
I have learned to live in the flow of the moment
instead of waiting for the perfect opportunities
to come to me. Instead, I chase the uncertainties,
the unsure things, the fleeting moments.
For it is in the experience of them
that I am able to find what it means
to be human – more than that,
I learn what it means to live.