When you reach a certain age
you feel like you’ve died—
even though you have not died.
Life seems like an extremely
well-made film with a subtle plot
you have little interest in.
It’s too highbrow for your taste—
yet the film is covered
in accident and filth.
The filmmaker is a genius
but you have no idea what
he is trying to say.
A series of minor decisions by a large committee,
which includes a lover you no longer
love, have made their mark—
and there’s nothing more you can do.
You find the excitable spoken
in a foreign tongue. Whatever is earnest
and clear makes you laugh.
You always thought the end
of your life would be brutally sad
and missing her would crush you.
Why then do you feel a strange
and delicate sense of revenge
In the middle of this helplessness?
Why do you care
Although you should not care?