Nothing is created.

Not the small beat of first love, not the big bang of your wedding day,

Not the first hour your first daughter was born.

Nothing is destroyed.

Not ideas, not technology,

Not real love that bloomed before your eyes.

Everything is struggle.

Uphill careers, backward relationships,

Rusted-out and broken-down families.

Everything is ineffable.

Divinity, a child’s love, the inscrutable stare

Of your wife’s deep brown eyes.

Nothing is quiet. 

Not a remote wilderness, not the tranquility of a desert sunrise,

Not the vacuum of ancient memories.

Nothing is deserved.

Not your pain, not your ecstasy, 

Not your deepest love.

Everything is unknowable.

The soul of any relationship,

The mind of a country, a true friend.

Everything is blurred.

Truth in the media, the story of how you got here,

The mysterious notion of time in the present moment.

Nothing lasts.

Not your memory, not your money, 

Not your magnificent childhood.

Nothing fits.

Not furniture, not families,

Not your future squeezed into the common light of a day.

Everything decays.

Empires, cities, walls, homes, the last vestige 

Of who you thought you were.

Everything hurts.

Muscles you didn’t know you had, relationships you knew you had 

But that linger on like phantom limbs, limbs that seem to have a mind of their own.

Nothing works under a thousand dollars.

Not the gas-powered weed wacker you got last summer, 

Not your first engagement ring with a pearl instead of a diamond.

Nothing works out the way you thought it would.

Not the love staring from your beloved’s eyes on your wedding day,

Not who you thought you were going to be.

Everything is expensive. 

Dignity, respect, love,

A career you sacrificed everything for.

Everything is disappointing. 

The promise of friendship,

Older siblings, the human being who was your father.

Nothing is certain.

Not today, not tomorrow,

Not the heaven painted in frescos above you.

Nothing is final.

Not death, not failure,

Not a summer day when you were seven.

Everything is suffering.

The crucible of education, the changes of growing up,

The commitments of love.

Everything is clear.

Love is a season, death is a moment, 

And life never gives up its secrets without a fight.