by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

the sun slaps me in the face. no wake up call needed. sunglasses are everything right now. who ever thought of them is a genius. i roll the cigarette around on my fingertips. maybe i should not have had that coffee and blueberry donut. i watch runners and bicyclists pass by. it is warm out, but not too warm. i inhale then exhale. i think about Thoreau and how he saw Buddha and drank the water of the Ganges at Walden. then i think i do not need the warm waters of the Pacific. the wind rolling in the undertow of the plastic covering of the Great Lawn at Columbia is sea enough for me. i watch the people go by again. other students exiting the library to eventually sleep. i think about leaving for Brooklyn. i inhale again thinking about now, the now. it’s a mix of content and anxiety. so many plans, dreams gone deferred, but still in the works. i look up at the sun, squinting despite the glasses. it’s cold. i go inside. guard asks for my ID despite the fact he saw me leave for a smoke break. nothing ever changes. the marble calls out with me as i walk down the halls. nothing ever changes, just stays the same. but this is mine and no one else’s. i sit down, already thinking about the chess moves i have yet to play. i think about the diplomacy i should have to win it all. but still i go back to thinking about the rolling sea of plastic that was just before me. i hope the librarian comes soon so i can take out a few books. i want to read more Russian novels and more favorite books of women i have met. then i think about what to write now and i just write while Perfume Genius plays their newest album in my ears.