Truth

Sequence

Life isn't just a sequence of waiting for things to be done.

But what do I know about life?

It's difficult to see the outside of the

Box I've grown up in, reside in,

That is me, as much as I am.

And there is blinding pain that comes

With a freeing love

And there is hope that tastes so sweet

That it turns bitter.

And I wonder what it means to feel these things;

Is everything a mirror image?

Only light with the dark,

Loss to embolden the outline of gratefulness,

Little crushing words to embellish the empty contentment.

Windows being swung open too quickly

And the light rushing in reminding me of a future

In which I can't stop the openings and I drown in the light.

Is that life; that apparent drowning only to be saved by persistence,

By pure instinct?

I picture an apple on a tree,

And I pick it and bite into it

While cool autumn air and soft light envelops whoever I am.

I imagine being loved and loving and feeling

A sense of belonging in this world.

And in truth, I don't care about what life is.

I care about how it's going to be.