it seems to me that we can feel dead inside.
not like someone has died.
not like some thing may look for the longer winter to come.
not like we ourselves, have died.
but dead, like dead things.
dead like hollow things.
dead like things that started out one way-
alive and active on the inside-
full of something that courses within,
but without our help-
perhaps without our knowledge and
at the least of us,
without even our caring to look at its course.
dead like things that started out this way,
but then ended up the other way.
the way reminiscent of the lively ways-
like a tree that has fallen over in the forest…
its bark still intact,
but its insides crumbled,
holed up in spaces once without space,
mostly hollow on the inside with just enough to validate
that it was once in fact,
a tree that stood in the forest.
that grew in the forest.
that lived in the forest.
it should be noted that the tree may in fact be dead-
and that is its place now in life.
but that feeling dead when you aren’t a tree-
when you are you
and very much still full of that which courses within-
even without your concern…
well then you can feel like a tree
unable to move in the wind-
alive, but dead within the parts that live.
it seems to me that when you are dead on the inside,
you live among other things dead.
or things that wish to be dead.
or in the least,
because dead is about the least of things,
things that have no desire-
perhaps no knowledge-
and most definitely, no desire of the knowledge-
that they can live beyond the death they call living.
there’s a stagnation in the flow.
a place where the most that can happen is that where it pools,
it perhaps turns in on itself.
never a replenishing,
but more a regurgitating of what was…
which looks a lot like what living is to the dead.
dead on the inside looks a lot like this…
like spinning in on yourself
and the force that is you,
perhaps beating yourself up on the rocks
and other things dead in the water,
churning and sinking and bubbling and swirling…
and then resting.
being so still that you appear to be
but only on the inside.
living on the outside.
looking like you are alive.
or once lived.
or are trying to live now.
but feeling dead on the inside.
like a tree that can’t move in the wind.
like a river that can’t flow around the boulders in its path.
like a lover who can’t kiss back.
like a hand that can’t squeeze when grasped.
like rain clouds that only threaten relief.
like stuck windows on the inside of the cool breeze.
like the breath you can’t take in and the one you can’t release.
like all things you know you should
if you didn’t feel so unable to do them all.
not like drowning, but like the inability to rise.
like looking up through the depths…
but somehow resolved to their darkness.