Alone With My Thoughts
What is wrong with me, they ask,
as if wrong has a shape you can hold,
as if a moonless night offends someone
enough to file a complaint.
I just want to be here.
Staring at my ceiling. Wondering.
Thinking about random, trivial things
that matter to no one but me.
Is the air really water?
Why do atoms look like
crazy, chaotic solar systems spinning
in every direction at once?
Does something live on them too?
Are we parasites
clinging to some giant’s cells,
so small we can’t even see
the boundaries of the structure we’re riding?
They think I always have to be social,
have to talk about everything
rattling around inside this head.
But it’s my mind. My thoughts.
I don’t ask them to share theirs.
They do anyway, of course. Endlessly.
Mundane chatter. White noise clatter.
None of it holds interest for me.
I’d rather let my own thoughts wander
aimless inside my own skull for a while.
Thoughts die off eventually,
starved from the simple lack of care.
The questions never answered
because the answers don’t matter.
Only the questions do.
They’re knocking again.
I won’t let them in.
There’s nothing wrong.
When I die I’ll be alone.
Why can’t I live alone, too?
There’s comfort in my solitude.
Peace and quiet
in random thoughts.