Everything is enough

Of all the things I know, have come to realise, have known since the beginning and only now feel they are statements as much of their own substance as of my mind, of all the things that have caused me razorblade clouds in my stomache as we drive past hovels and lazy flies, of all the crystal, frank arcs of cynical that epigrammed the upright leaves of golf-rough trees on days I was guilty over school, of being segregated from life, by a sorting pen I despised and yet did not subvert, vocally opposing much and wryly weary, of all the notions I caught with a smile at the back of my throat when they were posited by others and I thought, but didn’t that fallacy already get dispersed by my brain earlier, and how have you exposed yourself, and how levels of persuasion and repetition backslap, high-5, and delude each other, until the pool of widening ripples has refracted all light of truth and altruism to smithereens and they appear futile and laughable, and bullying and loudspeakers repeat, “proof! Proof!”, and people say “of course”, the stupid – that is to say, accepting – people, say and acquiese, the ones to whom I look for guidance, for I have questions, of all the ways and means of being that others example in full view, of all the ways they explain the path on which they arrived to now (and I’m biting my quizzical interjection), for all the advice and obfuscation, bluster, defensiveness, I’ve got something.

I am lucky.

I’m thankful.

There is peace.

There is uncertainty.

There is beauty.

There is infinite possibility.

The ways to see, and the ways to do, and the ways to give. 

There is always enough time.

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