I'm not scared, I'm human.

…

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I’M NOT SCARED, I’M HUMAN.

:::a poem:::

.

at this excruciatingly uncomfortable crossroads

where the past has been deliberately forgotten

and it seems like no future can now arise

where we numbly thumb through images of starving children

as if watching a Halloween horror film

as hurricanes rain down on inland villages

and floods intensify while fires burn

i struggle to articulate the awkward feelings metamorphisizing within.

painting by Thai artist, Thawan Duchanee

.

at this unbecoming juncture

where my ancestors seems to have all but given up

and it seems most would rather align our narrative with lies

than do the necessary work of coming to terms with Grief,

“embarrassment” and “shame” give way to altogether new emotions.

.

What is this that I feel?

.

as i stare into the endless, neglected night sky

disgracefully smeared by city lights, satellites and starlink,

i offer an incompetent prayer

guided by what little remains of what we once took for granted

that holy spark that once intimately connected us to the cosmos

forever guiding our way.

.

The Great Axis upon which all great stories arose

now seems but an ancient ruin

upon which now but another phallic tower soars

another billboard, satellite, missile launcher and meaningless metaphor.

.

i look at my daughter

i look back at the country that raised me

i see the coming tidal wave

and it isn’t “fear” that I feel

it is something else entirely.

.

i’m not “scared”

perplexed perhaps

lost within someone else’s manufactured dream

floating in a cruel, hypnotic bardo

jaded from too many sacred sites sold out to tourism

disgruntled and disheveled from all the amnesia.

.

uprooted for centuries

indoctrinated into a grossly misinterpreted religion

comforted by a “culture” that has no Place

articulated by a language that cannot breathe

that prefers efficiency over praise

convenience over reciprocity, relation and song.

.

this sensation is bigger than “regret”

far vaster than “confusion” or “dread”

no new politician can cure the dystopic fantasy that has stolen our View

no new war can usher in the peace now required for the revival of sanity.

painting by Thai artist Jirapat Tatsanasomboon

.

I meekly do what I think is right

and bow to the Sun at dawn

The same Sun that has seen us fall into forgetfulness so many times before

The same Sun that has seen so many unlikely miracles emerge

unexpectedly, through unseen cracks

glitches in the system.

.

a salty tear slowly trickles down my pensive face

my daughter asks, “Why?”

i have no answer

i don’t know what this feeling is

i’m not scared

i’m not sad

i’m human

i’m hopeful

and i’m dying.

.

i am of this now

and to live well is to eventually die.

so I offer my bloodline back to the soil

with a vow to try and re-member all I can before my final departure,

to surrender fully my voice, as did her favorite mermaid, to the mystery of the sea.

40 more years if i am lucky.

enough time to become good soil.

.

i carry with me just as much gratitude as anything else I am burdened by.

“This world is incredibly beautiful”, I tell her.

and i mean it.

.

but no one truly wants this story anymore

it’s exhausting

and isn’t fun

the plot line lost its focus long ago

finally, the jungle begins to reclaim Her rightful throne

whimsical cyclones ushering in Her inevitable wake.

.

beneath our unused feet

up and through empires frail, discarded bones

Mycelium brilliantly churns modernity into useful compost

without us even knowing

growing wildly different realms into never-before-seen view

new story’s sprouting from the ashes of misguided mistakes

fresh languages are being birthed into being

that store within them still all that has been lost

the magical, life-serving instructions that long ago informed us all

how to properly live

how to heroically feel

how to simply be

and let go.

…

we are seeds.

time capsules preserving Myth.

.

I bend down and wrap my arms around her.

She doesn’t understand this world.

And neither do I.

The Transformation of Sita (After S. Botticelli) by Jirapat Tatsanasomboon

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