I want it to mean something
That just next month
I will have lived forty years

I had once told my mother
That my teacher was old
Forty maybe

Forty years should mean
At the very least
That I know how to live
If not yet how to live well

But all I know is that
Nothing I have learned
Or lived
Or done
In forty years
Has eased the pain

In fact
Each year has saddled me
With far more than I can bear
Far more love
Far more life
Far more truth

All of which
In all their magic and beauty
Still manage to add up to
Far more pain of the kind that
Becomes who one becomes

Unequivocally misunderstood

But also loved
In all the ways of the world
Except the only one that heals
The celestial
Love for the self
As it is

Despite all this love
All this life
All this truth
All this pain that reminds me that I am alive
(Although they say it’s possible to be alive and truly free)
There’s no tale to speak
Of legendary deeds or ways of being

Six weeks yet
Of this journey to forty
Past forty really
For it goes on

All things can be

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