Being wrong

Have you considered the possibility 

that everything you believe is wrong,

not merely off a bit, 

but totally wrong,

nothing like things as they really are?

If you’ve done this, 

you know how durably fragile 

those phantoms we hold in our heads are,

those wisps of thought 

that people die and kill for,

betray lovers for, 

give up lifelong friendships for.

If you’ve not done this, 

you probably don’t understand this poem 

or think it’s not even a poem, 

but a bit of opaque nonsense,

occupying too much of your day’s time, 

so you probably should stop reading it here, 

now.

But if you’ve arrived at this line,

maybe, 

just maybe, 

you’re open to that possibility,

the possibility of being absolutely completely wrong,

about everything that matters.

How different the world seems then. 

everyone who was your enemy is your friend,

everything you hated, 

you now love,

and everything you love 

slips through your fingers 

like sand.

All of this is my way of saying
I'm still here;
struggling with working again,
finding time for self and soul
and
being proven wrong about many things.

It's exciting,
it's scary,
it's real life.

More later.