"Beauty in things exists in the mind which contemplates them."
Got my radio on the station
that wakes me up and shakes me,
leaping off the chair to dance,
to bring it back to my body,
this essence, the sounds of my life.
And I'm thinking about the world
and how the day I'm having
could be interpreted twenty
different ways, all at once:
child woke up at 4am (bad)
I got to sleep in til 11am (good)
I am tired (bad)
I have music to shake me up (good)
And "there is nothing either good or bad,
but thinking makes it so," he said
and it's just the g-ddamn truth.
Shakespeare is my bff.
Forever and always I will return
to his words. So, Mr Playwright,
move through me, why don't you?
Bring me luck and love and hope
and make me see the world as good
even when all is going to hell.
Spring is springing up around me,
my life is on the rise, sap flowing
and polinating and I cannot breathe
and the world is closing around me
and I am here. I am here. I am here.
And there is a world around me,
beautiful and bright
and I love this world, I love the world
but I don't love all the choices
I have made. But I do, because I have made
them, and why would I make choices
if I did not love them? And where
is this poem going anyway?
I feel the world so keenly,
but I am not in the world
I am here. Right here. Typing.
I am inside and the day is glorious.
I am inside and passover is starting
I am inside and the world will wait.
Here is the essence of me in this moment.
Uncut. Unedited (but I should. but I won't.)
Felt deeply, felt shallowly. Who knows
but thinking makes it so.
And I am here, unforgiven.
Forgiven. The last was always true.
There is no need for anything else.
I am here and somewhere else, you are.
I cannot be in your somewhere else,
I can only be here. Writing.