If I die at the same age as my mother...

I have just 20 more years.

Excuse Me While I Google That

How did they do it?

All of my ancestors?

I don’t mean that in a glib way.

I mean—

I was taught that humans are here

because of millions of years of evolution.

They survived not knowing how to make fire,

then learned to cook,

built shelters,

invented government...

And I’m one of them.

I’m human.

But while they were literally surviving—

life or death—

creating everything I get to use today—

electricity, running water, medicine—

Alexander the Great. Catherine the Great.

Cyrus the Great—

surely there were still people

who just... weren’t great.

Like some slave building a pyramid,

or an indentured servant

with five more years of hard labor

till freedom.

You know—those types.

Probably my people.

So how did they do it?

How did they get through

one crummy day at a time—

long enough

to eventually make me?

It had to be something like faith.

(My God. What horrors.)

Today I didn’t know something,

so I pulled out my phone,

typed it in,

and got the answer. Just like that.

My ancestors probably wondered too.

But they didn’t need it to be right.

They just made something up

and moved on.

It didn’t have to be true.

It just had to be theirs.

Excuse me while I search

Gwyneth Paltrow's age.
I just need to know.

God will set the table.

Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. 

R’lyeh Dreams

“The more he withdrew from the world about him, the more wonderful became his dreams; and it would have been quite futile to try to describe them on paper.”
― H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu

Heated nights devour my mind—
hexagonal dreams, terrors.
If I believe it, my sheets are wet
with sweat. I can’t remember
anything. Not today, not last night,
not yesterday—not who I am
anymore. The landscape, jagged
like distant, abandoned roads
you and I will not see—not for lack of want,
but lack of access. What do I want?
My cuticles crack and bleed—
and even when they heal,
they bleed again.
My teeth and nails slowly pick,
peel, and prod
at an edge that expands—
ever so—expands like the universe,
expands like my nervous:
vast and tumultuous,
too much for my mind
to comprehend. I’ve seen the ocean
and the moon—in real life, in photos—
but I’ll never know
how small I truly am.
Still, it weighs on me.

Perhaps you just need to sit in the sun and drink cold peppermint tea. It worked for me.

Sometimes the sun slips behind a cloud,
the blazing heat softens—
the light dims.

When exactly did we invent
outside and inside?
Before buildings, wasn’t everything
just outdoors?
Surely the door
came before we split the world
into indoor and outdoor.
Instead of "Where are you?"
ask me, which side of the door
I am on. I'm outside. I'm outdoors.

Where am I,
if not a handful of words—
made by men
long before me,
words given to me
to name these spaces?

Words made up—
maybe I can make words, too.

Maybe that cloud
is a ceiling—maybe I’m sheltered.
Maybe this herb is medicine—
maybe this isn’t illness,
but a kind of life—
like the sun
slipping behind a cloud.
Darkness can be nice.

Maybe I am spiraling, circling,
ovaling—through shapes
unnamed yet—
just ways to move.

Maybe life—the shadow—
was reprieve after all.
Maybe what we’ve called bad,
what we’ve called broken,
is simply life
doing what life does.

If it is right, it can be done. If it is wrong, it can be done without.

Where is the line?
It once was bold—

beautiful, prominent,
obvious.

Now it’s seafoam,
curdling at the edge
then retreating. Not

a shifting goalpost—
still a kind of marker—
but not this.
This is no marker,

just the transient
white of bubbles:
within, outside,
upon, beneath

me.

built different

"That's the problem with these dogs." The vet makes a gesture that suggests he’s not just talking about the two in the room with us, but all dogs.

"They're pack animals. They’ll stick with the group no matter what. Keep going until they just… can’t. They’ll be in unbearable pain, and still keep up like nothing’s wrong."

He pauses.

"That’s the first problem—they look fine. They evolved that way. Move with the pack, hide the limp, fake the energy. Until they slow down. And then, they die."

His voice softens.

"The second problem is time. It’s different for them. A year to us? That’s seven for them. A week feels like two months. So when something happens—

it feels sudden. But it’s not."

I glance at you.

Your eyes stay forward. Your jaw doesn’t move.

I reach for your leg—just gently.

You whisper, “I kind of expected this.”

I didn’t.

But now I see you differently—

faithful in your quiet way, 

like the oldest dog in the pack.

How you’ll keep up until you can’t.

How you’ll bear the weight without a word.

No grimace. No warning. Just go and go and go—

until you're gone.

We drive home in silence.

You shift in your seat—barely, but I notice.

The sun is low. The road blurs.

Still, you keep pace beside me.

Still pretending everything’s fine.

We will make it home tonight.