Dear Little Bubble,
I used to think that things fell into place. They just, like, fell, you know? That no one had to tell them to.
I guess all bubbles pop, though. For me, at least, they do.
When my bubble of autopilot popped, so did my trust for myself, it popped and left that residue in the air which fell to the asphalt because it was no longer light enough for the air to lift it.
I'm lost again. If auto pilot doesn't work and pilot doesn't work, what other option do i have to try? Maybe the plane should just stop moving.
Metaphorically, speaking, of course.
Maybe the plane's passengers need a new mode of transportation.
I'm so thankful that with every failure my hope grows in spite, it is my super power, because if there's one thing i've ever learned it's that the key to being invincible is the willingness to put yourself through the meat grinder for what you want.
Even though you popped, Little Bubble, even though you popped and blinded me by the spray of your soapy liquid, I don't hate you.
Thank you Little Bubble.
Thank you for teaching me not to trust a Bubble. Not the Big Ones, not the Little Ones. None at all.
In fact, you taught me not to trust anything fragile at all.
Thank you, for the lessons so valuable.
Thank you for the new world you've given me. Sometimes, though, I wish you'd left the old one behind for me. Now, I have trouble remembering how it felt to enjoy the iridescence of my old view from inside that Little Bubble.
Maybe you'll get this, maybe you'll comply.
If not, well, I guess that would be alright too.
Until then,
Yours Truly
YOU ARE READING
Yours Truly
PoetryYou want to hear the truth? You want the truth even if it scrapes against your skin and yanks your teeth out? Do you? Do you wish to? I could give it to you, I could tell you what I'm really thinking under these voluminous curls. But that isn't qui...
