183/365: The Fact of Truth's Relativism

Tired days and well days,
days when I knew myself
and days when I knew there was no self,
days when my tongue's gratitude for food
outweighed the global debt it carried
and days when I had none to share,
days when seeming coincidences carried us
on soft currents as though everything were foreordained
and days when all the broken and painful things
convinced us we were also broken,
the days I remembered love
and the days it felt as though love forgot,
even though it is woven through all things
like hydrogen or dark matter
with no linear memory of us,
no memory of any of those spaces
that expand and contract between every body,
mobile or static,
as it moves on this planet.
History's a diversion
without a whole story,
cast of pieces that fit a linear equation
chosen to prove the point,
despite what we know about the fact of truth's relativism,
or the truth of facts' relativism, as things may be.
History will not account for the subterranean,
or the celestial,
or our intercomplex orbits.
It will not allow
for what is not an act of will or some divine force,
each piece brought to bear a supposition,
an outcome strung too simply,
as though this simplicity of storytelling
were not its own relative truth,
as though we all had one way to go
and planned our trips accordingly,
as though one thought
I will eat good food and have beautiful things
and drive this car thousands of miles
over terrain that has been mapped for me
and the other thought
I will grow food I cannot eat
and become a romantic notion for his cause
while he travels over
unimaginable country.

I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.