Questions
I began writing this poem as a way of thinking about a strange sensation I’ll get every so often when I look down at my hands or use a mirror to look myself in the eye. I was never able to settle on a satisfactory title for the work, but I do refer it unofficially and somewhat tongue-in-cheek as my “Mid-life Crisis Poem.”
I wrote this poem recently after a quiet walk along a forest road. Although I didn’t realize this when I first started carving out the lines, it occurred to me later that the questions I ask in the poem are ones that I entertain internally every now and again in various contexts. They are, I believe, questions many people ask at critical points in their life.
And the words came to mind,
“How much does a moment weigh?”
The question, of course, is ridiculous
Because moments don’t have mass.
They’re intangible, untouchable.
They’re not here, then they are,
Then they pass unnoticed and unappreciated
Most of the time.
“How much does a moment weigh?”
The mental energy required to think this through
Is nothing more than a waste.
We might as well ask,
“How tall is color? What direction is fear?
What taste does an idea have
When it’s thought?”
“But how much does a moment weigh?”
If we must persist in asking the question,
Then I suppose moments in a way
Can have weight or a sense of gravity.
After all, they occupy space
In our day and leave indentations
Once they’re gone.
“How much does a moment weigh?”
The more time I spend considering this idea
The more logical it becomes.
It’s true that some moments feel light and breezy
As if they whip around corners to blow through our hair
And fill our lungs with the fragrance
Of pleasure and ease.
Now that I’ve started this, I’ll have to admit
That the comparison is undeniably apt.
Some moments feel dense and heavy
As if they burst in the room like a lumbering
Giant wrapped in thick folds
Of worry and woe.
Then I’m struck by this observation—
Our perceptions are fickle at best.
Because some moments seem heavy at first,
But as time passes it reduces
Their heft when we look back through
Eyes of experience.
Or who is there among us
Who hasn’t let a light moment slip
Past only after the fact
To have its significance and
Import grip our heart through the echo
Of its happening?
“How much does a moment weigh?”
I will concede. To speak of time in this manner
Can be helpful and fitting.
The weight of a moment
Is the weight we give
As we’re living it or reliving it
In our memory.
I lead a double life
As divided as day is from night.
An unseen dichotomy. A split personality.
An amalgam of shadows and light.
Most days, I expend my energy
In well-intentioned efforts to be good.
Do my job. Toe the line.
Live, look, and think as I should.
But when darkness begins surging
And the day gets turned on its head
I experience a strange transformation.
It begins when I’ve just gone to bed.
First, come the questions.
Springing from an insecure soul
They whittle and weaken my assurance
About so many things I should know.
Existence, God, purpose,
My commitment to my children and wife,
My job, the future, my ambitions—
“What on earth am I doing with my life?”
Next, come the dreams.
Though the details are usually dim
The emotions that come when I have one
Are as real as a cut to my skin.
Rage, Terror, Lust,
Deep sadness and confusion.
I often wake up to these feelings,
With no reason or real resolution.
Then, there are the screams.
Please stop me if this is too much information,
But my family tells me I’ve done this
On several nighttime occasions.
Personally, I’ve never heard it
And I couldn’t explain to you why
I sometimes shatter the stillness
With a tortured and guttural cry.
When the light returns as it always does
And Jekyl pushes Hyde back down under
I walk from my bed into a new day,
But sometimes I look back and I wonder.
“Are we still ourselves when we’re asleep?
Is it someone else who is dreaming?
Is my subconscious telling me something?
Am I really that guy who is screaming?”
I’m a good person. That is—I hope I am.
At nighttime I’m not quite so sure.
When I see both my sides, I just have to ask—
“Which version of me’s the imposter?”