Living in the Plots of Novels


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And then,

I will be happy.

And then,

I will find peace.

 

I see the thick, green grass;

I am intoxicated with

The fresh air,

The smiles

That line both my mouth, and of those

That I know will love me.

 

I see in my

Mind’s eye, those that will cherish me and that will know

That true love,

That kindness

Is not something expendable; to be

Discarded as thoughtlessly as

Last month’s

Expired milk.

 

I will… then,

Be the person I’ve always waned to be.

 

But now, at moments like this:

Reality

So sobering…

Sinks in.

That it was always in my head,

That pain is inextricable from reality,

And that happiness is not some place in the future,

That it is learning to accept the darkness and the light both

Within myself,

And within the world.

 

But one mustn’t settle, shall they?

Or perhaps they should?

 

Is it not natural for men to be propelled forward by change, growth, and betterment?

Is contentment attainable with such a restless heart?

Is this the heart, that we, that all of us share?

 

“Ella vive en las tramas de novelas.”

She lives in the plots of novels.

 

Ironically,

Deeply grasping,

Yet deeply avoiding

The laws of reality,

with which she is so intimate.

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