I sit on a bus in Port Authority. Irked by the general chaos, like trying to synchronize the crashing of the sea. It is a torturous dance, twirling me as I try to exit the floor, the tempo changing right when I thought I found my footing. I wait for the chimes of a broken clock, one which very well may never strike midnight.
I am frustrated with the old woman that bumped into me me as she stumbled for structure, waltzing with the monster of entropy.
I feel guilt for my grumble, and this elongates my yearn to sprout wings and soar above everything else. No sense of where; just forward.
And then I realize that perhaps, no matter level of tumult , there is an innate constant within us all to dream. I transcend, the old woman finds purpose in the madness, and every struggle is paired off with a partner of hope.
The size of the struggles may shift, but just as similar triangles can have different sizes but see things from all the same angles, so can we.
The music may swell us into the sea of unknown, but collectively, painstakingly, and defiantly: we all dream.
No comments :
Post a Comment