Smoke And Mirrors

It's supposed to get easier: the whole routine of getting out of bed

Soliloquising to myself, that the world isn't beyond redemption, that kindness isn't dead.

That I'm not going to spend today struggling to tell truth apart from the lies, 

That it isn't another tragedy that shall wither me before it leaves me more resilient and wise. 

How do I usher myself into a fool's paradise, 

Reiterating time-worn, soothing lies? 

How do I know that the world I have always known isn't just smoke and mirrors?

That I haven't been hallucinating unicorns and angels, while my kinsmen battle unspeakable terrors? 

I guess I'm glad it hasn't begun to feel normal, in a way,

That I don't think that devastation, cruelty, and oppression are as natural as day. 

Perhaps I'm thankful, still, that getting out of bed gets harder exponentially,

For I know that makes me human, capable of feeling excruciating pain and misery.