Joan Didion wrestled with, what she called,
“the meaninglessness of experience”.
Existentially, I suppose, appalled.
For our own use, when dead, it is nonsense.
Politically, too, don’t seem to learn.
Repressive regimes repeatedly come.
Obvious failures, we’re slow to discern.
And, wars of spite still, deceivingly, run.
Ideas, perhaps, may continue on.
They may have an influence on new ones.
Someone’s presence remembered, although gone.
Confluence of unknown makes what becomes.
She says, as returns from the grief-strewn sea,
“I remember what it is to be me.”