They say we’re supposed to be grown, but why do I feel like a child? Looking out the window, searching for something exciting, something new. All the while apathetic to the gorgeous present moment, standing at the edge of a moutain waiting for the wind to blow.
You say I’m supposed to be healed, but the pain is still there. Festering until the valve gets opened again. And still, the sun shines, hand-in-hand we spin in its late-day glow, interlocked, even if in a dream.
I say I’m supposed to be more like you. Like an open book with no cover, no shield, and free for all to see. Yet when the quiet comes and the urge to move nudges, I sit still and feel it all, inviting the thunderstorms with open arms, because only after can the sun shine.
Photo by: Lydia Vycitalova
