Embarrassing, to talk about the self.

How do you speak of what you’re unaware?

I sputter, words mean nothing, meaning breaks.

It seems I am an uninvited guest

When my soul reflects during its Holiday.

In a Dante-esque vision I look down:

Remember—when the Summer sun shone down

Throughout those elementary years. I myself

Would bask and bathe in heat-light all Holiday.

Suburban paradise—I was unaware

Of life’s ills; in our house I was a guest

Who parties until the owner’s favorite vase breaks.

And like that vase, the winter breaks

The Summer’s idle glee. Tumbling down

The seasons we start school, feeling like guests

When we first walk through the doors. Our sense of self

Is changed by year’s end, and, almost unaware,

We exit the year to begin our holiday.

I--------------I

The insurance company poster read, “Happy Holidays!”

And bragged that with their aid, my body will not break

At the rate of those in the care of others. I was unaware

That life could be spoken of so flippantly. I looked down

In quiet despair, knowing that when I lose my self

Completely, my body was a temporary guest.

I asked the doctor, “May I?” She said, “Be my guest.”

I told her I fear nothing more than death and holidays.

For idleness is practice for that biggest of vacations. I ask myself

Why I love being busy yet always feel I’m breaking—

No, always tired—no, back again—always breaking down.

For once I’d love to live life unaware.

And yet, to live truly unaware

Is no different than to be made a guest

Of Death (the brute knows not it lives). Knowing you’re alive is looking down

From out the plane window as you return from the separate plane of existence known as Holiday,

And seeing all of this splendor, and thinking just one tiny part of this miraculous plane could break

And lose itself amidst the flurry of existence (and I will lose my life). But still, the voice lingers, I might not lose my self.

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