Leigh (pollitts_word) wrote,

not a poem.

if this repository were the only source of artifacts about my life, one might come away with the impression that i'm a rather tortured person. but where is the poem in endless gratitude for sunlight and sidewalks, the continual astonishment of self-authorship, the security of good friends, the comfort of well-established boundaries. how would one wax poetic about how each day starts with optimism and ends with satisfaction.

it's not infinite happiness--that's silly. there is stress and frustration and self-doubt. i'm still alive, after all. but it doesn't define my days like it used to. and it doesn't keep me up at night. a man flipped me off in traffic today, and instead of crying and writing him a letter to soothe myself, i watched his eyes in his rearview mirror and saw the weight of his life coming out in that gesture. this was not about me. this was his poem of torture.

i feel lucky. i feel grateful. if i were superstitious or mystical, i would be building alters to the universe or the great mother. there's no poem in that.

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