I am a romantic of old:
I dream with eyes open,
I remember life by specific scents and vivacious colors.
But straddling the line of before and after,
of life pre and post infinite connection,
I find myself falling more towards the latter side,
and further away from the screen-lite kind of life.
I have forgotten how to thrive in the recesses of my own mind,
with no eye to the audience,
without the likes and follows.
I am not and have never been,
by any means a purist.
Though I long for past eras,
of strong communities,
I love (or am addicted to) the appeal of the always available.
There is always more to learn,
experiences to witness that I didn’t know of
and life to try.
Though, do I want to?
Is it that I now desire the domestic,
or that I long for stable roots from which to grow?
Is the constant creeping cloud of worry due to not knowing how to say “my experiences are enough”?
From wanting, when sharing occurs,
for it to be from others via their own lips,
or some other slower, less show-y manner?
Can I not just miss out on what I don’t know,
the fear of regret assuaged by the realization that what makes for a good life,
is still yet the most subjective of all?
So perhaps if I just follow my ephemeral heart and gut,
they won’t lead me astray.
Hey, if what you read seemed dated or familiar, I’ve been combining all my other blogs’ content to this site. Please bear with me as I post older content. 🙂 This poem was written May 5, 2019.