3,000 days' war

three thousand half-beginnings ago

is when this story starts.

first there was a purpose, a murmur

barely audible;

like a skipping stone it rippled cross

a mind of dark stillwater:

tabula rasa nigra.

the weight of waiting and

endless preparing and

cyclical maybe-coulds,

led only to tomorrows

that turned to yesterdays.

sabotage:

a quiet routine,

the only one to stick.

can you believe just one mason

built this stonewall?

high enough

to feel like home,

nothing beyond

matters much.

this affliction

makes you fear your own hands.

that they'd build something

besides the wall

that would be so real

you couldn't ignore it,

and it would coax you beyond

what you so carefully built.

so you remain,

threading the needle

between nothing and not enough—

a master of inertia,

one step short of living,

one breath shy of dying.

3,000 days have come and gone.

inertia lingers still.

"perhaps a little sabotage

can temper idle will—"

this is what we tell ourselves

to cushion harsher truths.

you fear what you'd become

if you stopped wasting all your youth.

but the harsher truth

has a sweet reward:

the charade will end someday.

bone, muscle, synapse—

they beg to move & be moved

to breathe & feel

to fight & heal

even knowing

they'll end in ashes.

there is no failure in losing, even to oneself.

there is only grace in having ever fought at all.

and perhaps, perhaps

you can end the story new

doing better

than you thought you'd do.

and 3,000 days from today you'll think

that much more of you.