Sometimes I decry my own humorlessness
and the subjective state of my being.
I have to be me.
And not a bird in the sky, the evening breeze.
I have tried to be open to otherness
and for sure it is there, here too.
Within us, and then I remember again
that we are not alone.
But that is subjective too,
how we experience otherness.
And sometimes I’m humorless.
It may distort but not cancel the fact
that I have a deep yearning beyond me,
sincerely and fundamentally.
And it should not be mistaken
with the death-instinct.
It is the living otherness I am for.
And not the one promising freedom
through abstainment and death.
My bones love you deeper than vacillating humors.
And that it is beyond me makes fulfilment real.
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