Think of the forces in life you cannot see.
Think of the forces that give you good dreams. The ones that land gently in your thoughts with snow flake feet and the best intentions. Think of the forces that touch your forehead with one finger and make you play wonderful films in your head, films that make you feel like changing the world isn’t some foolish notion created by fairy tales and motivational speakers. Think of the forces that make you feel like the color in a world of black and white.
“You write too many love poems,” said the girl who I read my last love poem to. It’s true. I do.
I’ve written about the people who I wish would tell me “It’ll all be ok.” I’ve written stories about their eyes, sonnets about their legs, and songs about their faces. I’ve bent rhyme schemes so they would fit to the shapes of their bodies, I’ve spent hours thinking about what word would go best at the end of my next sentence. And would that make you happy? And would that make you love me? “Would that make you love me?” I ask sadly staring at my ceiling fan as it breaks the hearts of so many dust particles just begging to settle down on my window sill.
But after those poems were written and spoken in my finest voice, the air turned thick in my lungs, and my heart refused to beat. And I wondered. I wondered if Mr. Young really had a Heart of Gold and if his cowgirl in the sand was only a figment of his imagination. I wondered why I wrote those poems and who I wrote them for.
But I don’t wonder anymore. Because this is a poem for the people who deserve it.
I woke up today.
After I set my feet on the ground, I wondered, why do I get to place my feet on the ground? Why do I get to wake up, here, today? Why do I get to breathe, talk, eat, live?
But then I realized that these questions are silly, and that no amount of pondering or wondering will bring me closure. I called myself stupid, and got in the shower.
There’s something about a shower that makes life seem infinitely clear. The steady breath of the shower head, the warm water hitting your neck, and tiny droplets splitting into tinier droplets and finding other water to latch on to in a continuous cycle of division and cohesion. The shower is where the world’s problems are solved, I think.