INHERIT THE EARTH
Test. Test. I changed the typer tape, and I don’t know if I made a good job of it. Looks good. Well enough to continue, at least for the time being.
It's hard to celebrate anything these days… those little victories that normally carry you from one mundane day to the next… they are drowned out by the sheer magnitude of the moment… the Grim Reaper's presence has grown taller than any stalk or grain. It has grown taller than our egos, paper—thin as they are. We are all devolving back to apes of survival with angry gods upon the winds and clouds, throwing not lightning bolts, but viruses, striking the very heart of humanity. How I long for those days not two months ago when I could go to a bar and see the smiling, slurring faces of the city. We are something like rabbits now, hiding in our holes amidst a field of ravenous wolves. Rabbits and apes… animals are we, scared and helpless and alone. These digital words and faces do not compare to the real thing.
Dreams seem obscene at this point in time. Right now survival is everyone's dream, everybody's only dream. I myself have wondered whether there's been some kind of immunological weakness within my cells. I guess we'll find out soon enough. It's true I have roughly a 99% chance of survival, but I've been unlucky before. It's not a total tragedy though, thank god. The virus seems uninterested in the lives of the young. Alex will be okay. And, no matter what happens to me, I will be okay because he will be okay. My life has been a fraud from beginning to end anyway. It's about time he inherit the Earth. Though, admittedly, I had no idea it would be so early. He’s nearly two. I pray I live to see that day. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, but that's my dream now. Nothing else.
I feel alienated from the poetic light within me. I have been distracted. I’m trying hard to grasp onto the concept that I have finished a book, and that it will come out whether I’m alive or dead. I made such a demand of Mandi, which she hesitatingly, if not naively, accepted with the assurance that I would be fine. Who knows? I also have a trio of poems being published in the next issue of Literary Orphans. That's nice. But can I possibly say something meaningful as the sick struggle for breath, and I lie comfortably in my spacious downtown apartment? Should I say anything? I heard somewhere that this is the role of the artist: to distract others from their misfortune. However, my inner conscience argues otherwise. It's a battle between ego and humanity.
I think of my parents during this time. Yes, even my father. I think of my grandparents who have loved me since I was a little boy curious of dinosaurs and constellations. I think of my in-laws. I hope they will be okay. I hope they all will be okay.
