I stay in bed, hoping that things in the days will arrange themselves
In front of me, a neat series of coherent necessities,
Stretching all the way to death, whenever that is.
I hope that there will be nothing to do, only
My being able to see, appreciate, think
—Entirely without the accompanying effort of proving it—
Will give rise to the desired destiny.
And so it is that I am gripped, once every couple of weeks,
With a terrible fear of a life in which I cannot decide
Because I have never thought out, or decided,
(This, too, you notice, is non-optional)
And I am swept off to things I don't want
(Ha! So I do have preferences!)
With (self-)pity for life-support.
And I decide then that I will take responsibility,
Think for myself, not be a ninny,
But I can't even claim the legitimacy of new year's resolutions
For these. I don't know where they go.
But neatly, cutting my losses,
I acknowledge to those who bear the brunt
The wrongness of my wrong.
I don't know if they forgive—
perhaps they belittle it, out of my calculated over-estimation.
And I do it again. I hardly realize I'm doing it.
Self-awareness, pah.
