rhythmic reverie

the constants aren't so constant anymore
two days i wait for
calls to come though
tonight for me translates to yesterday to you

The saddest thing is that we’ve forgotten. We have our eyes closed as we drift through days. We keep running and running — from the past, from the future, toward the past, toward the future — never embracing the moments of the present. We trip over our own foolish feet, gasping for air and aiming to find some sort of solace without any action. All while we think, “Well, it is what it is.” The reality is that we’ve memorized maps and colored between the lines and looked before crossing the street for as long as we’ve been taught how to. We’ve been crafting our thoughts on the insides of our spiral-bound notebooks while the outside covers plainly read “Dreams.” Voices of anyone but our own have spoken for us as we continued to remain quietly behind the curtains of our own show. Whispering, “I wish there was more.” There’s always more if you want it so badly, but there are moments you want that don’t want you. How many wishes laid upon shooting stars, found pennies, repunit times and dandelions have been wasted due to standstill aspirations? I want to tear up the skin I’ve grown numb to and create scuff marks on freshly painted sidewalks where not a single soul has planted a footprint. I can feel the earth shift beneath my feet and I’ve grown tired of sitting and waiting and wishing. Sitting and marveling at the grass over how it remains green in between seasons, at the moon making way for the sun every day while we forget to make way for ourselves. We’ve been conditioned to conceal our weird, our pies in the skies, ourselves. Just in case. In case of what? For who? To look polished and to follow a sparkly pipe dream far from our most intimate imagination? The only person I’m aiming to impress is myself. Unbuttoned buttons and scabbed skin and muddled minds do not result in the cracks of the earth beneath our feet. It’s our remarkable ability to keep watching the world pass us through rose-colored glasses. We’ve been told that hopes and dreams are meant for journals, fairy tales and sleeping. That the real world has been built for the planners, the organized, the straight-A students of life. All while my heart carries more depth and ambition than a drawer full of papers marked with As by someone I never looked up to anyway. All while my soul has taught me more about the cadence of life than any sort of numbers and letters coming together to somehow spell out “Educated.” Our pens haven’t run out of ink yet we keep forgetting our minds’ innate ability to think. I want to rummage through my soul to find the first time that I knew myself and the great degree of comfort and confidence I had in my fears that, despite being absolutely terrified at every waking moment of my life, I never allowed that to keep me from doing a single that I wanted to do. I want to learn from the cracks and crevices beneath, around and within me that, like a heart, a broken thing can find fixing. Whether in someone, something or somewhere. There are no strings attached to our hands or feet, and no stones forcing us to bend at the knees. You’ve got to stop trying to save the world and instead start trying to save yourself. The constants may not seem so constant anymore, but the rhythmic beating of our hearts is a reminder that we haven’t forgotten how to be alive.