an attempt at the absurd

there’s a mountain with your name, 5.7 miles as the
            icterid blackbird flies. but you don’t have wings,
and the only bars you have are steel. there’s a map of the world
            on your wall, an atlas full of places that
will never exist. camus talked a big game about freedom
            in an unfree world, but you’re an edge case he
never considered. there are lessons in his death,
            how we all carry unused train tickets to the same
destination. how love and despair are symbiotic.
            when is the last time you felt free? you learned to drive
with an iron in your hand, and you have a bucket list
            of things you regret. does it mean something to
think we could have shared a name? there’s so much impermanence
            in an otherwise prosaic existence.