I spent today like any other day.

Dreamed a few dreams,

Relived a few nightmares.

And for what? Just living another day till I die?

What makes me come alive I do not know.

What sparks a fire in my soul?

These things I knew once. Perhaps.

Forgotten now. Under the burdens of living.

I looked in the mirror and saw a face.

That is not me I thought.

But the eyes, they looked familiar. Troubled.

And so, I made myself a drink.

To numb the pain of being alive.

Is it just me that feels this way?

Is something wrong with me?

And after the stupor wore off,

I was back to feeling like shit.

Though truth be told I did not feel better inebriated.

So, I meditated on this life.

These words flowed – a poem?

But it does not rhyme.

Maybe if I could write like Whitman, I thought,

These words would convey how I felt more adequately.

Then I turned to words of wise men.

Those that KNEW the answers.

They all said to me:

A dream is not one you see at night,

A dream is one that will not let you sleep.

What about slackers like me? I thought.

Degenerates, dilettantes.

I have no dream I call my own.

I steal dreams that I like.

Just as I steal words that I like.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked.”

How did Alan think of it?

It is as true today as it was in that age.

Fight this despair.

For what and for whom?

Then I turned to Whitman again.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Maybe one day I can come up with such beautiful words.

Till then it gives me solace that these words exist.


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