image from pixabay/pexels CC0
it’s not that we’re ungrateful or unappreciative —
we’ve just forgotten;
the veil of our selves prevents us from ever seeing,
from remembering this.
it’s not that we’re hateful, wilfully destructive, violent or intentionally hurtful —
we can’t help our selves — we simply react, as a body reacts to a bee’s sting.
there is no self control, no agency, no causality or responsibility,
no reality to anything our selves believe, or believe they do.
it’s not that we’re weak, lazy or afraid, or don’t care —
we’re overwhelmed, haunted
by the ceaseless hallucination of being separate,
of being apart from this,
and our suffering is so deep and so endless
we cannot dare really feel.
it’s not that we’re depressed, despairing, or bereft of hope —
that’s just our way of coping, dealing with our incapacity,
the absurd hopelessness of the prison of the self,
this life without parole.
it’s not that we’re oblivious, inattentive or in denial —
we just can’t know where, or how, to look, to see, wondrously, this.
it’s not that we’re uninformed, or misinformed, or don’t yet know,
or that we haven’t yet ‘risen’ to our potential —
we are doing all we can, which is, alas, nothing.
it’s not even that we’re damaged, disconnected, traumatized,
(although we are, it seems, these things) —
we are not the cause of anything.
yet our selves suffer, without respite,
from the illusion that it’s our fault
that somehow, horribly and inexplicably, we are to blame.
it’s not that.