I am sometimes better,
sometimes worse.
There are two kinds of people,
those better than me, and those worse.
When I find myself on the worse side of things,
I must quickly recalibrate my expectations
of the world around me
and reposition myself accordingly, shifting up
or down the ranks, sometimes sideways
but never stay still.
As I am always busy being better or worse
I do not stop to think
that the one who busies herself in these measurements
is just a desperate intermediary, running back and forth
between what is, and how I must respond,
with her incessant interpretations:
“Bad”
“Ugly”
“Unworthy”
“Mediocre”
It is not that all her brokering brings bad news.
But that even her good news
assuring me of a place in the world
of worth, of efficiency, of utility,
feels a little empty.
I am so busy being better or worse
that I fail to see
that the very act of brokering takes away
from what could simply be;
that the real opposite of worse is not better,
but is seeing the futility in finding one’s real place
among made up ranks.
For instead of merely enjoying the evening skies,
how ridiculous it is
to appraise sunsets.