For the first time every goosebump on my arm is filled with worth and anticipation's hum. We're all so close-knit that we breathe together. My inhale is their exhale. And I'd say we were a machine but there's too much life in us to be made of nuts and bolts. Instead Band-Aids and soggy mittens. Coffee cups, inheriting thumb war strategies, and forgetting. A dollar here and there to contribute to the Consistency Fund.
I wish I lived in the time before existentialism was invented. They didn't have to question their existence because they were too busy not to have a purpose. The thought never even crossed their minds. It's answer was splayed out physically in the black dirt underneath their finger nails. The sweat in their eyes would blind them from seeing their own inaccuracies. But me, I fill pages with wishful thinking and over-analysis. Because I can. Because I give myself too much rope and then hang myself with it.
No comments:
Post a Comment