A poem by Randall Parker Jr.
Kids are poor on choice, but rich with time.
What did I savor as a boy?
A sophisticated adult feigns depth while wine lingers in mouth.
The child protests the day's end because tomorrow seems too long to wait, for more fun.
The adult protests the day's end because today left too much undone.
Both languish and linger, protesting the now.
The child perhaps impatient while the man slumps forlorn, embattled, and critical.
Is it better to be a content simpleton with no ambition or regret?
Or to be a man who quests after much, often stumbling, ever excusing failure?
Knowledge and questions eventually lead us to static.
Will this waiting area end up serving as a lobby?
Children eat the bigger slice of uncertainty pie,
yet the adult lost the taste for subtly and can barely stomach three bites.
We feel like we got a raw deal if we're honest.
How many, despite position and circumstance, honestly own joy and security?
If it's good, it surely must be rare, right?
Positive thinking was a secure delusion, but I was never wrong.
Unfortunately, by default, many others had to be.
Constantly, I'm waiting for the show.
What show is it? I haven't the slightest idea.
I want to be in it.
I don't know my lines.
Maybe the show is fully improvised.
If so, I'm fully prepared.
The ego monster in me just wants to be important.
"Notice me!" it screams into the dark, wet, whipping wind of the night.
Sure, words act as salves, saving suppressed sanity.
What a wonder, there is light.
Fortunately so, every time around.
We return and rekindle the inferno at the center of our camp.
Welcome. You're right on time.
