Probably one of the hardest parts about being me
Is what I see as the great abyss of silence in this world
About the things that Jack thinks are worthy of great amazement
Or curiosity
Or laughter
Or sadness
Or remorse
Or study
Or conviction
Or praise
Or gratitude
Or action
Or love
Or even of conflict between fellows.
She stays silent, the sea—
And those who are in her—
Unmoved by these things
While yet stirred up about
So much that is mundane—
Except, of course,
For those in her having long-since
Hardened themselves wholly—
Who being now driftwood
Feel nothing at all.
And I find myself daily
Trudging through the surf
Looking for the unpetrified ones
Ever hoping they are yet alive enough
To be moved by something other
Than the waves—
And finding so few
As to make me question
Whether I am the insane one
In thinking that such things as
Great amazement
And curiosity
And laughter
And sadness
And remorse
And study
And conviction
And praise
And gratitude
And action
And love
And even of conflict between fellows
Are proper for life in this world.
