[10 July 2019]
Remember when you told me that life cannot be made out of ideals?
It was summer. Sweat glistened on your brow but your skin was cool.
You said that life must be lived on the ground, in the dust, in the dirt;
that life can never be more than it is right now, today.
I said I disagreed and left it at that. You walked on in silence.
But now I say more – I say that life is the pursuit of the unreachable:
a series of unattainable hopes and dreams
(chasing after a solitary Point we haven’t yet fully discovered ourselves);
I say that life is lived in ideals and made on the ground,
fashioned in the space between the falls and the failings
and the moments of longing and imperfection, surrendering everything
and banking it all on the next sunrise, while the stars wax and the moon wanes.