people are crazy man, for real—they’re nuts—certifiably mad. it might bring a smile to your face if it didn’t first make you incredibly sad. their behaviour, senseless. their principles, remiss. idling on autopilot, swathed in simple bliss. they put ice in their wine, they soak pickles in brine, they sleep in a tent and dive in a cave; they shave their heads and get tattoos, engrave their beds, enslaved in debt, and spend hours in awe of how their dogs behave. tell me, what kind of fucking monster cooks their pasta in the microwave? it doesn’t make sense, not to me anyways, and i happen to be the centre of the universe. sometimes it feels like everything’s an act. everyone’s a hack. putting on a show and feigning their feelings so my Grand Opus can stay on its track. do others have feelings the way that i do? think about it before you say it’s true. don’t you sometimes feel like you’re in the centre too?
i used to go out and see people
talking, laughing, drinking wine,
and without a moment’s reflection
i considered their lives benign.
i’d stumble upon a gathered crowd
meandering, waiting in line,
and couldn’t help but secretly think
that their lives have no design.
but lately i’ve been seeing people
in an entirely different way.
focusing on sensibility,
keeping biases at bay.
so now when i leave the house
it’s like i’ve seen the sign,
and know that every person’s life
is as rich and complex as mine.