The following poem addresses the human condition as something we seek to make meaning of: we all seek to tell our story, find a way to mark our existence, and transcend time past the limits of our lifetimes. It engages the often futile feelings we have, our blindness to our existence, and our angst generated by feelings of erasure. The poet believes that the drive to tell our story, to be remembered for that which has shaped us, and to mark our existence, transcends the biological need to procreate, superseding it.
How do we heal from trauma? Can we truly learn from traumatic events or are we doomed to repeat the same mistakes, mindlessly, until death? To deal with trauma, what defenses do we put up, and how do we keep those defenses from blocking our growth?