Out of sorts

Nobody wants to feel out of sorts

It’s an insult to psyche to even suggest humans enjoy displacement.

All we’ve ever wanted was security – to feel grounded and sound where we are,

to sound out where we are, round about where we belong.

We don’t want to have to outsource our integrity.

We want all that is good to come from within like lyrics to a song,

all that is right, bundled inward, and all that is wrong remains in the throng of our surroundings, among externalities.

It would be fatal for us to survive, thrive on what is given to us by others.

 

On the quest of coveting lovers we will be deprived,

in seeking love from our mothers and brothers, we will die

because everything we seek from the outside is futile and fruitless and faithfully fatal.

 

Out of sorts we become.

Out of sources.

 

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