Sad By Habit (while I contemplated the addiction to sadness. It is like sadness at a lack of sadness— like we actually like it)
And there it was in all its glory
Shiny bits of ore hiding in the dirt
The burlapped men set to work
yet its molding left them empty
The want of metal created desire
Passion took its position— center field
so that the flames weren’t for craft
but for the exploit, for the triumph! so they thought
Boys who wandered, wondered westward
turned to men in sordid search of survival
and once found formed dissatisfaction
at the satisfaction of just survival
For though they searched for that,
The minimum of existence which suffices
I dare say for my own lowly self,
It was the accomplishment that brought more sadness
greed inherited from the old world, perhaps
But though I content myself with survival
at times,
I too dream of loftier places— more happiness
for like those frontiersmen I follow insatiable thirsts in my own way
but do forget me— no adventurer am I!
But they! They sat down and craved more than happiness. Rare pieces of earth.
A currency of happiness that represented far more than anything intrinsic—
That was their way of eliminating the sadness of the minimum, man’s (a) fuel.
What they didn’t see was the cycle. The feeling they ran on —the food of discontent— It being their internal drive to try to end it, which only repeats in the unrecognizable
For after they found that rich, dark
yellow-shine, they stumbled upon something unknowingly, becoming
sad by habit.
