These Mornings

 These mornings. The alarm I pay not enough mind, the keyboard that gets not enough action, and my mind that knows not what it wants. These mornings. The wants should come from me but I will be satisfied if they come at me. I will not duck or flinch. Hit me! Hurt me. Punish me. But do not ignore me. Apathy is the opposite of love. Is there no calling for me? These mornings. Where comparison is the enemy but a necessary one. On a deserted island on takes on all the properties, traits, and characteristics. I am not on an island, these mornings. My world is populated. Hell is other people, per Sartre but Heaven can't be devoid of our brothers and sisters. We...compare. We...must. For we got here together. We...survived. From aboriginal Africa through industrialization, and face to face with our digital selves...we. These mornings, I think about you. And us. Never one from the other. Impossible. There is no I. There is only us. The forsaken and the deserted are just that. Past tense. We are here and now. We have a future. Together. These mornings. All of us.