Ode to last Summer’s inspirations

The human urge is as oscillating as these gusts of air that permit me the sight of either still or not so motionless clouds in the sky — though even the clouds possess some implicit will, for they don’t fly all at a tandemic rate.

And I here do not care if are their weight or shape the features making their velocities disparate; what counts is how erratic gusts and urges, in truth, simply can be, and how they also do coexist regardless of how well or poorly explained we may have them be.

Thus, days are like that, through them I live my longful life with sublime patience, savoring a break to forgive you and I for not having yet managed to transform our desyntonized echo of love into a single hum of final achievement of a certain improved togetherness.

We have our plans, each with our now, and it’s healthy so. Keeps us busy with something. Reason why I’m sat on this old sofa now outdoors, sunburnt, conjuring this page of a most random notebook someone offered my mother at some convention.

You would see… were we to know in advance the road to one another, would we even be trying to get busy anymore or could we be braver than that and rest instead?

If we knew all, we’d also be knowing how worthless our busyness can maybe be in one or other way. Who’d win at being the most worthless overall, you or me?

As in everything in life, it’s whoever chooses to try the most who’ll also be up to taking up the greatest disappointment. But since we don’t know anything, there lies the fun of it, we can be beautiful in our own silent business of trying.

Fruits are bore by trees that not you or I know of yet. And maybe upon seeing them we’ll tell each other how we sorta dreamt of a certain tree which gave life to a certain fruit — the fruit which is ultimately us — and that it eventually turned out to resemble our eventual final reality.

Trust me, even the image of us shaded down under said tree sharing a bite will then, and then only, appear to us entirely familiar and obligatory. But that’ll be just, again, the story we tell ourselves. There’s always a necessity of running throughout a whole story so that the experience of it might indeed get us to the fabulous place with the real fruit from the real shading tree.

Dreams alone weren’t the shortcut for love, life walked us through it, this road not so short and neither cut as we might wish it to be. You sometimes make me think that if we could wish anything at all, we would have never wished for one another.

Miracles are too remote to even wish for. We’d simply be more vanilla, clearly more romantic, like everyone else out there, however, way less fond of love. If we could wish for something, maybe we’d be foolish enough to wish for an end to ourselves, we’d die only so that the world could leave us alone. It expects too much from us, but still not more, I guess, than we expect for ourselves.

I’m still expecting you.


Photo by Alexa Mazzarello on Unsplash
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