Post script (6 months)

Every day half finished things. Is that ok? 

My baby is safe and warm what was the goal, anyway?

And who decides it? Even those zen monks and productivity experts and happiness gurus don’t know, really. 

Cling so tight to some idea about happiness someone else made up only to one day disappear forever? Silly. 

We don’t notice the good stuff till it’s gone.

Let this be my mother song: everything slides into the drink of eternity, 

Bad and good. So forget all the fucking pressure from authorities. 

Authorities has author in it… the ones who write the rules. 

Empty. Power, fame, recognition, respect – all those fucking schools of

How to be seen, to be less alone, to make a difference, to check a box

to be of service, to serve the self, to meet a quota, how to unlock

the truth, the wealth the power the acclaim

to climb a mountain it’s all the same 

To save a life, including your own. 

If life by death every time is overthrown

Does it matter? 

What does? If the same rolling eternity goes-on-rolling ever-onward? 

Some things happen. Others don’t. 

The baby’s napping. 

Maybe I won’t do what I thought I’d do today.

More and bigger goals. Then I pass away. 

I haven’t done a thing but just as well

Because I sit here, nursing my Mirabelle, 

watching her face morph from a baby’s into a little girl’s, 

so slowly I don’t even notice.