We are small, fragile constructs.
The material world is enormous, fallen, indifferent.
We cannot make it alone.
We need each other, desperately.
Our desperate need makes us angry.
In our anger, we act out. We rage. We hate.
The hate only increases our emptiness. Our need.
Like a tesseract, our small bodies have infinite capacity.
The emptiness can’t be filled if it’s already full
of bloated ego.
Ego doesn’t satisfy.
It has volume but no mass.
We have to drink it down,
one bitter, pride-flavored cup at a time.
Make room to fill it with more satisfying things.
Gratitude. Hope. Wonder. Mystery. Love.
Our capacity for these things is also infinite.
We are bigger in the inside than we seem.
[Author’s Note: Despite the final allusion to Doctor Who, this poem was written as a response to the shootings at a midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises in Aurora, Colorado. I was struck by the fact that “aurora” means “dawn.” In the aftermath of such a dark, terrible happening, there were still stories of heroism on the part of regular people who were there and chose to act selflessly, rising like the dawn after the darkest night.]