the history of my stupidity

the history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
would have tended nevertheless toward the candle’s flame.

others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
the little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.

i would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
the time when i was among their adherents
who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

but all of them would have one subject, desire,
if only my own—but no, not at all; alas,
i was driven because i wanted to be like others.
i was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

the history of my stupidity will not be written.
for one thing, it’s late. and the truth is laborious.