one of those late night thoughts about life

We like to fall in love with our own place in the world.
It’s a desire I think stems
from this time in our past
where home was our world
and the outside,
well,
you just don’t go there.

We like to pretend this little dream of success
and corporate ladder climbing
and stainless steel fridges and
game boys and little white laptops and the pressure to
have all of those damn CDs
makes it a worthwhile search for happiness.

We like to fall in love with the romantic notion of
a white picket fence
a house surrounded by neighbours who bring by
cherry pies, or cherries.
A house filled with laughter and family and dreams of
careers climbing corporate ladders and
more homes with stainless steel fridges.

And it just never satisfies.
We like this quest because we haven’t ever sat down
like those
in those places
have
and faced up to reality.
Life isn’t about the simplistic search of material gain.
Life is about living.
Life is about feeling terrible because
the worst thing we’ve got going for us
is a dish full of unwashed utensils and pots.

Life is about poetry with narration and songs with cool beats
and friendships that test one’s ability to stay awake
and clothes on the floor and mud on the soles of shoes
and waking up groggy and still churning away because
somehow, somewhere,
deep down inside,
in the pit of this stomach where we know the truth lies,
we know what the meaning is.

And that thought, the idea of a collective regurgitation,
keeps me alive.