On this beautiful,
Transcendent
Ineclipsible
(Which I'm pretty sure is not a word)
Sunday afternoon,
What in the vast,
Uncompromising,
Unstable
Yet imperfectly perfect
Spinning World
Are we waiting for?
I realized today
That we are all floating
Amidst Billions of Light Years of space time
And in this isolation
Or, despite this isolation,
We still have a way
To have each other.
What, in this cynical world
Of meteoric rises and untimely deaths,
Of gradual ascents and patterned declines,
Of Manifest Destiny,
Where you Choose Your Own Adventure,
Are we waiting for?
To the woman with Red Curls
Staring at her own Reflection Pool
Resisting the urge to go asunder,
I remind you there exists
In all things not death or taxes
A Choice,
For fulfillment over fear
A happiness in choosing to start living
The very things that make your heart
Practically leap out of your chest
The things that fill you up
And cause the physical reaction:
The churning, the raised brow,
The blue blurry-eyed realization
That life is both fleeting and forever
In a single moment;
The fiction and truth merged into one.
You can write your own meaningful narrative
And to the woman with Red Curls
Her own author of happiness,
Of fulfillment
Of success,
Knowing what and who lay at your feet,
What are we waiting for?
