We humans tend to believe the future can be sterilized, wiped clean like a kitchen counter at midnight, bleach still stinging the nose.
This is an understandable mistake, and one we make with great enthusiasm. Scrubbing our goals until they shine, polishing our ambitions until they reflect nothing human back at us. Removing every visible flaw under the noble pretense of "balance."
Anything less than ideal? Dismissed as unnecessary clutter. Anything messy? Quietly escorted out of the room.We tend to call this discipline, defining such belief under "wisdom."
Only, In hindsight, we find it was our shadow, holding an eraser.
I spent a long time orbiting, dreaming diligently of arrival while quietly neglecting the soiled, inconvenient present.
These are some written wounds and reflections from that time, exalted in the form of poetry.
Related Subjects
Poetry