Afternoon Apathy

(it’s kind of a poem, it’s kind of a song–it’s kind of messed up)

I’m so confused. Is this what it’s all about, lost in my afternoon apathy? Would somebody please tell me where I’m going, what I’m doing and what the point is? What’s it all about, and why am I here asking questions in a little notebook–does this help me pull it all together or just provide concrete evidence for my insanity? What is it all about? Where does my hope reside? Is my Sunday School answer just another lie? Does my hope lie in bed with a pretty girl and a tender kiss or does my hope lie in what I can accomplish–a mighty statue to my pride–or does my hope lie in a web page–pulled together with such beauty, won’t you please take a look? Or will my hope reside in future days of better ways? Where do I find the strength to push on through the apathetic afternoon? What’s it all about and why am I here? Should I just take a nap and hope it all disappears, maybe drown myself in this or that calamity, create some passion within this stale heart and form a false hope to tell me what it’s all about, what it’s all about. Insecurity, tragedy, conformity. What is it all about and why am I here? Is it just a matter of easier to serve than love? How can you love what you cannot see? Intuitively I understand, but it’s not a matter of the brain, it’s a situation within my heart. What is it all about and why am I here? Will the answers suddenly materialize, or do I need to fall down on my knees? What do you want from me? You want it all so simple, but you can’t have me. I have you. You’re my Sunday cause, the thing that gives me passion. I tell you what to do and you change the world to my liking–I am serving the shoe box God. But how can you love a God you’ve consigned to a box? What’s it all about and why am I here? Questions that haunt my mind like the chorus of a hit radio song, over-played and under-analyzed. What’s it all about and just what is he rambling about? Too much negativity for you–where are your clean cut answers, cookie-cutter situations and sitcom resolutions? This is not an echo for your mother, she’ll frown and wonder who wronged me. He was such a nice boy. But it’s more than that, it’s more than you can know. It’s the world upside down through someone else’s eyes. What’s it all about and why am I here? Can I just curl up in your arms and make the questions go away, ignore the responsibility and the amazing calamity? Maybe this flood of introverted self-analysis will be gone and I can watch TV, hold your hand and be a happy American. What’s it all about and why am I here? I don’t accept–I won’t accept your answers; you never read the question. You put it in a box and have long since forgotten who you are and what you wanted to do. What’s it all about and why are you here? Minivans and McDonalds are a poor justification for your credit card existence. Is there more to this world than the material, and why can you not think and come to understand something more complicated than a thirty second commercial? Am I the only enlightened one? Look out, here comes my pride. It’ll run you down like a garbage truck, and we’ll all just wish I died. What’s it all about and why am I here? What’s the rationalization for this perplexing realization? Would someone please open the floodgate and answer me with grace, show me mercy, and love–a bloody human form. I know that’s what it’s all about, but won’t you please explain that to my afternoon apathy?

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