Robert Bly makes me sad

"Not knowing how to live, or even how to make a living, results in blunders. And the self-doubt comes from living in small towns." -- Robert Bly


At 44, I've come to know the inner workings of great questions,
the yearning for resolution driving the machine of existence,
I've asked and answered a dozen times the same questions,
everytime everyone just a little different but no closer
to the truth of what to do, how to be, where to go;
the dogs are barking, there is work to be done on the house,
the drive to work drops into black holes where I don't know
what has happened or where I've been, satisfaction seems to recede
ever further yet I become more confortable with it at the same time:
I want to tie it all up into a complete package and send it off
to the people who will follow and show that it can make sense,
the whole thing, the decisions and mistakes, the wasted time, the lost
opportunity, the clashing and retreating, the moment of realization
that this is how living is done: a crawl just a little further than the one
before, the species just a little better as a result of me being a little
better, just for a moment, this time, before I am gone.