The Ether

I am grateful for the road that never changes.
How else would I notice the way I unravel—
threadbare as a being in motion—
if not tethered to a path that rejects permutation?

I am grateful for sedimentary rock,
its countable layers offering certainty.
How else could I soothe thoughts
that ricochet quietly,
like misremembered constellations—
or the fading pulse of the cat
hiding under the porch to die—
if not by searching for meaning
in old dirt and older fossils?

I am grateful for the Mini Cooper
in the rightmost lane.
How else could I feign superiority
in my battered Kia Sorento?
Wouldn’t we all do anything to feel big
in a world begging us to shrink?
Or—
wouldn’t we all, just as easily,
do anything to be a small car,
invisible, unassuming,
fading into obscurity?

Is that so wrong?

I am grateful for customizable license plates—
the more inane, the better.
It’s a pleasure to think: Mine would be infinitely better.
How easy it is to say something
and do nothing,
to make a promise never meant to be kept.

Such are promises to the self:
felt in an instant,
forgotten the next.

So much of life is spent this way—
a thousand thoughts relinquished
for a single action,
a thousand ideas discarded
for the hope of one slightly better.

Is it possible we are all self-sabotaging?
That we are wired to lose ourselves
a million times over,
just to become a self worth losing?

I am grateful for this enigmatic struggle:
of human nature against human rationale,
of the self against the soul,
of truth against memory,
of waking up every day
and trying,
just a little harder than the last,
to be something better
than the something I was yesterday.

And still, I am grateful—

that for now,

for this fleeting, fractal moment,

I am enough.