Human

When my dreams slow down enough,
for me to hear myself,
for me to breath,
all I can think is that,
this is the life,
not one I have chosen,
but one that has been made,
and I have made,
for myself,
for others to share in,
for others to know.
What I have built,
what others have surrounded me with,
is life,
gloriously broken,
curiously whole,
this is life,
not made less,
or more,
by the influence of dreams,
not given a goal,
or a threshold,
it remains as it is,
for in its loneliness,
it is almost perfect.
Though life,
in all its horrid brilliance,
has been made by so many,
into so much,
it is so little,
so confusing,
so untainted,
in its singularity,
it is all we will ever have,
and feels that way,
we build to expand it,
to reach it,
to become more,
but all we can ever be,
in it's complex simplicity,
in it's brilliant horror,
is human.
Whatever that means.