Life. A rushing, painful madness. Tinged with stories and memories, like splotches of yellow on green. Of hastened childhoods, vividly recalled. Quietly remembered.
The ever callous nature of the human, eternally prevailing. Death is inevitable. All the cars parked beautifully in a majestic surround. Or the body pieces that splatter themselves . . . torn madness.
Reach for the stars. Get your degree. Get a life, a husband. Give me a break. We’ll all die anyway and we forget that Death is constantly indifferent to the who and the what and the why.
And the satisfied trader cannot have more stories than the self-righteous executive. Because life gives you just enough stories and they are never too much or too small. Just enough that it fits with your slice, your slice of life.
And there will always be innocence to prove me wrong when I think the world is as nice as it gets – a baby’s chuckling face, the abundant gracefulness of happiness in sorrow. . .
There will also be reality to slap me on the head when it is stuck in the clouds. Distance, pain, a sour loneliness that spreads through the limbs. Memories of a forgotten friendship.
Life is at once sweet and bitter, joyful and sad. “Yesed and Noed”, passed and failed. There and Not There. It will always be all these, until the Time of Tears. For now I look at life and I see a fineness within the ugly and I find that it’s not all that bad.
Theodora, 16, is a young poet, she writes from Middlesbrough, UK. Email: firstname.lastname@example.org
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