this me

These thoughts slant too often
in most dismal descent
forgoing even the very occasional
allure of simple pleasure.

But then
what of it?

So I am addicted to complexity
and the illusion it offers
of a life less banal and the
hope of being somehow special.

What of it
I ask you?

Is it so very odd that a man
might wish to be more than he is
and reach heights
thus far unimaginable?

Have you not
thought so yourself?

I live a life of persistent
domesticity unadorned by awards
or praise or shining stars
awaiting only a dram at night.

You know what I mean,
don’t you?

It is not that I love any less
the companion who shares my life
or the weans who bring joy
to my heart every day.

It’s just so hard to love
this ridiculous me.

At John O’ Groats, Scotland (May 2015)