Warehoused

Too little is obvious
You feel it in your bones
The gnawing knowing clings to your innards...
Yes, it's easy to write about too little

Too much is more subtle.
It sneaks up on you
and catches you when you're distracted
by all the distractions you can afford;
a puzzle to muse about at your leisure.
If you're so inclined

And we are too many, too much
And also not enough, but they don't know that,
not yet.
It's not their job to find us our purpose,
we who have spent our lives training for what does not exist yet
them who have spent their lives training for what does not exist any more.

We're both bewildered.
There is work to be done, but it's easier, isn't it?
To stay bewildered.
Easier, isn't it?
To remain here, in between the not-yet of youthful zeal
and the too-late of inculcated codependent complicity
Easier isn't it?

Yes, it's easier,
to simply wait, for something.
And so we find ourselves arranged in neat and tidy rows
perched atop an assortment of padded shelves
organised, and protected from the elements,
and the elements protected from us.

But, the elements are where we're meant to be,
called to
Adventure!
Explore!
Discover!
Invent!

The organised, the tidy, the desperately safe is not our home.
Our home is in the wind, and the wild
The lightning and the tumult
Off the edges of our maps.

Wide-eyed with not knowing,
Driven by hopes we scarcely dare to name