Socialite

Three days,
for three days I have chosen to be social;
tomorrow makes four,
there may yet be more.
I have dragged myself from the depths of dim Thule
And hibernal slumber into the hinterlands
To find my friends still waiting
– still friendly,
still waiting –
for my emergence from darkness
from thirty-one years of winter.

A funeral hardly phases me now, my aunt’s passing
Seems so nearly prosaic and predictable
That I haltingly stammer to a stop to study
myself;
What am I
thinking?
Doing?
Being?
Will I follow in her footsteps,
Struggling and striving
for mere normalcy, a few nights now of escapism
While I walk like a wound weaving between wastrel
and tragedy; can I take this cup, father?
Would that you could take it from me,
but I am not so naïve
and my worldliness wearies me even as I realize
so many have it worse
than
me.

Yet I push,
I push back the pall and palpitations
the embarrassment and blushes
and gather up my failures
to drag against them jangling like Jacob Marley
as I stubbornly refuse to sink into the saturnine
once and for all
(and all for one),
and strive to be happy as Desiderata decrees
as I hope against hope
I can beat me.

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