Sometimes I think this life is too easy. I sleep on my
comfortable bed that sits off the floor. Mattress.
Box Springs. Quilts, sheets and pillow. I eat
frozen and preserved things from the supermaket. Foil wrapping.
Empty box.
Microwave. I travel
miles in a single day. Engine noise. Concrete. Seated. I work, learn, ten hours a day. Chair with wheels.
Desk. Ream upon ream of paper.
It is not enough.
There is a feeling, vaguely remembered,
an impression of what it is to truly labor, to work past one's limits,
when sleep becomes nothing but a desperate stopping, a brief dark restoration, the luxury of dreams- nothing. Summer jobs-
grease and sweat.
Rock climbing- frozen arms and twisted hooks of fingers. This must be part of what it is like
to be a soldier in war. There is no other feeling like this.
Sometimes
I think this life is too easy. Sometimes
I would not mind a war. Sometimes
I would not mind flunking out into manual labor. Pushing my mind, my body, knowing that
I can do no more, that I am doing ALL that is possible, and perhaps just a touch extra.
Nothing wasted. Sweat, dry mouth, sleeping on the floor under a torn piece of canvas.
Luxury is for the rich, the weak.
Rest is for the lazy. I am a human. I am one of the finest machines evolution has constructed, and I shall prove it.
Comfortable bed that sits off the floor. Refrigerator. Microwave.
Automobile. I do not need these things. Only two things.
My body and my will. All else is meaningless.
Sometimes this life is too easy.