Life’s too short
Life’s too short to scrutinize
To pick apart every lump
Every stretch mark and dimple
Life’s too short to compare myself to kids decades younger
To what if and wish
If only I had been on track through my 20’s…
Life’s too short to miss the beauty I possess in my dimples and stretch marks.
Too short to forget how I earned those marks.
Life, my life, has been full of my own battles that leave me as I am today.
As I should be.
I had a debate about God today.
It was about god. Where is god. Where are we searching for that connectedness, and when we find it, what in the fuck are we supposed to do with it?
We agreed, the idea of a god, whatever that looks like, is within ourselves. Agreed.
The debate came in the aftermath of that finding…
Once we have “it”…
His thought was, you keep it, you nurture and develop. The best thinkers of all time are those who isolated and grew who they were.
My thought; what is the purpose of this growth and development. Do we not keep what we give away. Does “paying it forward” not only enhance the lives of others, but also keep our fire lit for the very thing that keeps our souls sane? We are wired for connection, if that connection can bring light, spread light into the lives of others, then DO SO. This dark world desparately needs to be illuminated. As he put it, if you are lit from within, there is no need to seek out and educate others. They should see it through your actions. Beautifully put I should add. People aren’t smart. A lot of people. They will see what you do, the light you have, and be unsure of how to create a path designed to get there.
I am not smart. I need a fucking map. Burning bushes right in front of me. Floodlights….and even then, I’ll still question and second guess. I want clarity. Step by step instructions. As this friend knows, his fire sparked my fire, through instruction, direction, guidance.
We agreed to disagree, though he made some very valid points. What if they don’t get it? What if they end up resenting you for being “wrong”?
And to that I say; who gives a fuck?
The journey is in the seeking. We don’t FIND God. We continuously search. Forever.
Rumi, frost, Dante, Shakespeare, where is he…
Complete works. Pablo neruda.
One page is folded over, marking it’s spot.
It’s marking the sonnet. Our sonnet:
I love you the way certain dark things are to be loved.
My breath quickens. My knees hit the floor. My face begins to flush.
I’ve not read these words for months. Purposely. Trying to forget.
What does this mean?
This means nothing.
Another appreciated these words as I do, as we did. The stars have not aligned.
It’s simple a page.
Folded to mark the beautiful words.
Of a beautiful poet.