exactitude vs. the imagination

Sometimes I feel so cyclical and predictable
like the way it takes the Earth 365 days to circle the sun
like the way it takes Jupiter 4,332 days to do the same thing
I undoubtedly repeat myself
My lies
My loves
My routines
I can’t shake what I know
and I won’t shake what I don’t
Steinbeck started Of Mice and Men at the river
and he ended it there too
What is he really dying to tell us through this?                            Perhaps that we can’t move forward
Or maybe that
we always end up where we begin
despite how far we throw ourselves—:
Scientists can mathematically and accurately predict
how many stars are in the observable universe
A doctor can estimate with reputable proof how long a patient has to live
in stage four cancer
A nutritionist can tell you how many vegetables to eat
to balance out your bad habits
But I  can’t find
my footing
In a maelstrom of insecurity
delusion
and anxiety
Sometimes I wonder where the exactness comes from—
Sometimes I wonder if experts feel madness
doubt
dismantled
Somehow
I know they don’t
or maybe they trudge, unequipped
It’s hard carrying the weight of demons
an ironton, coal, sludgy mass—
especially without any credence
especially without a numerical equation
providing an exactitude
that I still can’t fathom exists
Instead I dig the soles of my feet into the silty banks of the river
I look up at the sky; feel how small I am—
I am rooted, grounded
I came from rich, irriguous earthcrust
Not alone
but with others
who feel an emptiness
that is only broadened
by the men who have certain
answers to the questions that
are better left
ignored
leaving us to create
imagine
and to understand
that in 365 days we will pick up right where we left off.

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About laurenfedorko

Aspiring writer. English teacher. Philosophy: know more about the world than you did yesterday and lessen the suffering of others.
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