IF NOT, THEN WHAT

Call me a hair-splitter.

 

Because so much is wrong.

 

So much of my small self,

so much of this big world.

 

You can’t argue with that.

 

All the fixed injustices,

all the unbending lies.

 

They stand like vigilantes

in front of my little house.

 

Who can liberate me?

Where can I escape to?

 

So, is this what remains.

 

To lie awake at nights,

to stare at the ceiling

(which, by the way, could

also use a lick of paint).

 

Maybe a fine cup of rooibos

every now and then.

 

Shouldn't we expect more?

 

From myself, from others?

Is this all what we can get?

 

To be helpless like inmates,

powerless like detainees.

 

But only because we

tell ourselves these stories.

 

Because we adore them?

We absorb, explore them?

 

Should we flip the script?

 

Are there newer narratives,

additional straying notes?

 

That we can be true heroes,

daredevils, fortune seekers.

 

Our world is topsy-turvy,

let that be a given to us.

 

But hey, isn't there

a path running through it?

 

Through this hodgepodge.

 

A cunning little pathway

towards a untrampled region.

 

A hunky dory panorama.