I can’t stop worrying.
It is an inchoate condition.
Life is inherently dangerous
so I worry about living.
Then I worry about not living.
Then I worry about how to live,
the wherefores, the responsibilities.
Until I become cynical.
What’s a good life?
Or a bad life?
Or standing in one spot
and learning the weather?
Or doing something useful
like a lighthouse
providing a landmark.
I don’t worry if the world will blow up,
or blow away.
I worry about people,
their happiness, health.
Hoping they will not be poor,
grow old,
discover a fatal flaw and succumb
to it.
Perhaps that’s what I am destined to be,
a fire alarm,
a traffic cop,
a security guard,
an organ donator,
and at night,
before I say my prayers
for everybody,
to read a last sentence
of one of the stories
in my book of fairy tales,
“…and they lived happily ever after.”
Then I keep the faith.