The Myth of the Myth of the Individual

The number of casualties is growing,
or so I’ve been told. Never was much
life to begin with, out here off the map.

No stories to tell, either. Only falsities,
& there is a difference. This wasn’t my
idea. All the same, we have performed

brilliantly. We’ve fought it out. We may
even be approaching victory. Know
how I know? Because. Observe how

adamantly we stand against the idea of
surrender. We’re falling for each other
instead, like feathers from a comforter:

unintended. Of course, we’re all alone
in some capacity or another. We all
whisper unnecessarily in endless retreat.

There’s no use arguing with me here.
I’m busy soaking up this landscape
we’ll never see again. But feel free

to ask about the battle cry. It’s not
of the left-right-left variety – alas, the
nature of no-man’s land – regardless,

it goes as follows: Hush up, adrenaline.
Your jazz has no place here. Hush up,
adrenaline, your jazz has no place here…

Such mantras tend to fail. It’s an odd war.
Still, I’m sure we’ll find ourselves on the
same page sooner or later. After all,

gravity existed before it was discovered.
As did most things. & how can we ask
them to love us when all we do is ask to

be loved? Sometimes I wonder if each
of us is in fact a different element, species,
world. But ignore me. I’m no diplomat.





About Poet
Olivia Lansdale: Liv is a Columbia College student majoring in Creative Writing and Sustainable Development. She is currently an editor for the Baltimore Review