Fireflies

Sometimes, I feel deeply and intensely unhappy.

Why is that?

What do I praise in place of what I should?

My life is not a bad one.

My life is not an unfortunate one.

And yet I’m still plagued by uncertainty,

Wallowing in regret,

Trying desperately to capture the fireflies outside my window.

But the window isn’t there.

And the fireflies are mere figments

Of an inquisitive mind.

That window sure seemed real.

It had a wooden frame and a pane of glass.

But I guess it only served to reflect;

To reflect the pain that wanted fireflies to be real.

Catching things in mason jars was never my forte anyway.

Sitting in a rocking chair is dangerous, you know.

Tipped over unexpectedly,

And then where are you?
On the ground, where you’re destined to be anyway.

Where dead things pile up like garbage.

Where muddy water soaks your feet and stains your shirt.

If only glowing embers could really fly.

Then I could pretend that the fireflies were real,

Instead of white-hot lumps pressed up against my cheeks.

My life is not a bad one.

My life is not an unfortunate one.

I’m just unhappy sometimes.

Why is that?