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Here we are, human:
We are isolated, imprisoned, in our skulls.
We build tunnels and bridges and airplanes out of music and words and art.
There is joy in this construction.
But it is not their purpose.
All of these require a soft place to land.
A crew to welcome us home.
Elsewise we hit impenetrable rock, drown in the sea, crash land.
Alone, we perish.
We don’t expect to be welcome everywhere, or even many places.
Sometimes our construction is faulty. Inelegant. Incomplete. Lacking. Doesn’t meet code requirements.
Sometimes our maps are faulty. We stumble in the dark; our notes are sirens; our phrases are flashlights, our pictures are beacons.
We keep trying.
We meet rock and sea and air.
We despair.
We keep trying.
We emerge victorious, we cross the infinite, we land softly.
Our crew welcomes us home.
And still we are alone.
Our tunnels and bridges and airplanes are temporary; they crumble.
Our music and words and art cannot carry the fullness of ourselves.
We cannot negate the isolation of the self.
We cannot share our homes.
Here we are, human:
Still, we keep building.
Still, we welcome you home.
