The old mannequin stands in the shadows.
a relic of another time, when there was time
for every detail to get the attention it deserved.
a time before algorithms and metrics,
when nothing was measured except lines and fit,
custom, truly, when time mattered in a different way,
as a reward for simply being.
For your mere existence, you mattered.
That is my fairy tale. What I want to believe,
but it was never so. You mattered, then as now,
if you had enough to matter. Enough land.
Enough money. Enough position.
The rest of us got the leftovers.
A different application of algorithms perhaps,
cruder, but just as effective in marking who gets what.
I do not fit in this world I live in.
I came to understand that long ago.
I am too likely to stop and listen to anyone,
to rearrange life and thinking and lines and color
to match the room I live in, or you live in,
as if somehow, you mattered just by being,
by the mere fact that you are.
We are all broken. This is the lesson I have learned,
the lesson that has shattered my rose-colored glasses,
and left me struggling to learn how to see properly
and still to my beliefs
without myself coming undone,
like the orphans of the French Revolution,
the lies drive me mad.
About this poem
At times I venture into obscure references. During the French Revolution there were many, many orphans, and in the new “age of enlightenment”, these orphans were often used for experiments. In one of these experiments, small children were raised to think opposites. So up was down. Down was up. You get the idea. And then the children were released into the real world, where everything they believed was proven a lie.
They all went mad.
This poem was spawned by an article I read this weekend: The God of Love Had a Really Bad Week by CNN. I am a believer in the God of Love, even when sometimes our world, and even our churches seem to say I am one of those French Revolution experiments released in the real world.
Be well. Travel wisely,