Bookmark #871

Most of the day today was spent in the frivolities that become part and parcel of an adult life, but then, in the evening, I found a poem. The poem was what one would term childish if they were entirely in touch with their morbid adulthood. Fortunately for me, I am not so old at heart, and often, I find in myself what one would term immaturity, but I owe my ability to effortlessly enjoy the little things to it. I read the poem, and then I read it again. Then, I shared it with a friend and my brother, and then, I read it again like you read the copy of a letter you sent someone, only to tell yourself what you sent was worth sending, and often, pause in awe at a good sentence or two. While I am not as skilled to have written a poem so simple, reading it gave me some kind of second-hand pride. And that it was still possible for me to enjoy the levity in it stirred and shook all the smog of adulthood away. Now, I sit here, and I am full of hope again. And now, I am in my bed, and when I am done writing and working some more, I will find it in me to read it again, and then I will go to sleep.

I am tired, too, and there is nothing but cold, cold air around. The repetition is intentional for this is how we talk lately. The first time we say it softly for the air takes our breath away, and then, we say it louder. The news says the rainfall is all but disrupted thanks to the tropical storm far away from the hills parched in this fog flurry. Of course, it is the things of science that rule the world. That, and hard logic. Those two things are all that matter to us as we grow up. But then, I reckon other things count, too, if you let them.

When science fails to explain your days away, perhaps smudging your paint-dipped fingers on a white canvas comes in clutch, and when logic fails to inform you well, then I reckon a poem swoops in and saves you. They say we all should remember where we came from, but so many of us forget. Not me, no. I am as much a child as I am an adult. If there is one thing I am fully aware of, it is that simple is often better than right. Tell me, is there anything simpler than the eyes of a child?