Who says we meet our fate in a straight, single-file line?
Who says the path is shaped in zigzag or dotted horizontals?
Paths are in infinity’s shape at soul-level,
A glop of squiggly lines wadded up into a paper ball at material-value.
Take that crinkled sheet of tree pulp and toss it in the waste bin,
and only let Infinity in.
Tomorrow is a worry house that willingly, no one calls home. But it calls on them. Takes the mind in its uncertain hands and distorts it. Makes a fort for it and only spoon feeds it what-ifs and shoulds and cants and more what-ifs.
Today is as tangible as air, as dry sand in tight clutch.
The home awaits. How long we are looming over morrow’s gates is entirely up to us. And we won’t be freed until we realize the gatekeeper is none other than ourselves.
Atop my right shoulder, a gold raven perches. She tells me the weight on my shoulders will only be lifted when I see the gift in it. So I sit with it until we meld.
And before I know it, the weight lifts like steam and my ego melts.
In my letting go by becoming one with what hurts most, I become the stream and its coast.