The Past Has A Discount

gratitude, Prose, The World is Beautiful, Thoughts, time

Red clearance space lines dot the tags of clothes past their seasonal deadline. Prices start at 50% off.

History books are written by whoever is left to record, leaving out millions of people across centuries of life.

Societally, we’ve learned to discredit the old news. It’s left to newspaper clippings gathering dust on the corner of a fridge.

The luster peaks to brilliance in the present, and dulls back to the past before one can even complete the thought.

Now replaces itself like a second-by-second refresh, and leaves then as one lump-sum identity.

The course of time is a mysterious miracle that makes me think constantly of how baffling “now” is.

The now I started writing today with is different than the now lingering at the end of this punctuation.

And the space of time we populate between “now” and “now” is full of beautiful things.

A Netflix episode? A cycle of the circulatory system. Millions of cells creating, splitting, dying, and replacing all at once in our bodies, trillions of miracles deep.

Like “now,” the processes keeping me full of the blessing of this life never stop refreshing themselves.

Like “now,” the process putting thoughts to words to paper and keyboard never stop finding new miracles to focus around.

Every function dutifully repeats itself, picking up when it falters.

And that’s why I’m a part of this miracle,

Which remains extraordinary even after the period of “now” passes.

The bad news is that it will always pass.

The good news is that there will always be a new now to marvel at.

Don’t let a clearance rack sway your appreciation of the things past due.

Cash in on the bargains, and let the love linger there.

Excitement:

gratitude, Nature, Peace, Poetry, Uncategorized, Whimsical as Heck

Today, I turned I’ve hours in Wal-Mart into a couple of sizeable steps on my journey.

Thinking in the pouring rain and then the fourth aisle (for the third time), it was a happy Mother’s Day.

In two days I’ll be a happy public servant. My friends have elections to win, and I want to stand helpfully political by their side.

Smoke billows from the incense like dog fur growing,

The diamonds and four-sided stars putter and cough,

As a swirling gale from five feet away comes to snatch the fur in a circling whirlwind.

It hangs in the air and sticks to the wind like glue,

Giving it a definition I never thought of.

I look around my room. Shoe-hangers, instrument corners, and some god-blessed open space.

This place has a definition I never thought of.

Perhaps the elements play darts with the two pairs of flip flops that face

The blusters coming from the open window across the room,

A smidge less than twenty feet away.

A wind spitball hits me as I type that.

Everything’s doing fine.

Everything breathes.

This isn’t foreshadowing any other June horror stories.

I’ve got my peace.

So maybe I need to run and give it to others.

What was Tim’s last name again?

Gratitude is a Weapon

Amherst, Empowerment, gratitude, Internal Poetry, love, Peace, Poetry, The World is Beautiful

Gratitude is a weapon, keeping eyes sharpened to edge and warmth in its holster.

I’ve taken tabletop infinity for granted.

Food deserving of national prestige has become commonplace, valueless as a plastic swipe to forget. Now, I’m hungry.

My love-saturated heart grew weary of people’s attention, and now it starves for it again.

The space I wished to travel across faster has become fixed and cramped. I yearn to let my roots down to spread and paint the room.

The commodities I scorned as Capitalist I see as luxurious now, in this backwater little kind of town.

And how many more are out there? How many more live under heavier blankets?

It boggles my mind.

It feels like there is so little I know, but I know that gratitude is in order.

So I’ll sit back as I attempt to stretch once again into lotus,

And visit the temple I carry in my chest with affection.

My left eye throbs with the weight of observation.

My body aches with the motion of today.

24 well-spent hours and still, little has changed.

How do I make it past this college dream to fight for the right to keep dreaming afterwards?

How can I build this all up if my surroundings fill me with feelings like additional luggage to unpack?

In a nibble’s fraction of my inability to comprehend the universe around me,

I fail to comprehend the totality of life on Earth- in America, Massachusetts, Amherst or No Bro.

So I thank the air that chooses to bend,

And I thank the inspirations I’ve been forced to leave behind.

I thank the people who have taught me patience and the people who have learned to be patient with me.

I don’t think I thank them enough, so I thank them again for the few and far-between.

May the thankful react live longer than Mother’s Day Weekend.

May our collective gratitude burst forth often, like bundles of light to nag us with sweetness.

So we never have the chance to lose our luster.

I’ll keep the syrup of gratitude at a boil,

So it can splash viscous like water across an infinite tabletop of cups running over,

And melt with abundance through the hardened hearts of the people who need it.

That is how I will fight my wars.

Gratitude is my weapon.