Striding with a show of purpose into yet
another day
which (by the only meaning ‘day’ had ever had for
you)
existed solely to present new opportunities to shape
the virtuously laden thing you called The
Destiny of Me,
that moralistic brat Freud called the Superego blundered
out from under your poor psyche’s battered hat
and for
a moment barred your way. This guardian of
shame
and comme-il-faut
had not however come to blame you
for your cowardice or self-inflicted woe or all
your tours
of unforgivably transgressive sex but rather to
announce
that it itself had had enough of sin and wasn’t
interested
in further monitoring yours. Then it vanished
in a poof.
Like someone took the roof off, let the sun in –
Pharrell
Williams’ Happy Song without its threat of endless
repetition.
And you hadn’t felt a single reason to express contrition!
What meanings now adhered to ‘destiny’ or ‘day’?
But that
and every question like it had just morphed
into a glimmer
of a substanceless
benignity, and sighed itself away.
.
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