A delicious gray moon,
Under cold coal sky,
The breath of passion lies in the air,
To many you are just one,
But to me you are the fuel of life,
A turning and crashing of an unknown sea,
You fill the empty corners of sadness,
To quit the ecstasy of you,
Would be to deprive the young of life.
My obsession with wealth materialized on that day in December when the cold tile grazed my naked feet. Every dime was a dollar and speck of dust became gold. It came at me from nowhere really. The purpose of life was tinted envy green. In every corner I saw the spotless marble floors. On every delicate finger I saw bleak diamonds. Isn’t it more than the money I want? Am I so shallow that my friendships are formed for my own success? Or maybe Royals is ironic because Lorde actually puts wealth on a pedestal. Maybe I have an infinite love for cheap, shiny things.
The stare of the longing desire,
Of loss that overtakes the bearer,
A harmonious sea of wonderment,
Awaits our grasping hands,
A divergent golden sea,
Salt in the breeze,
The water lays upon the waiting sand,
To spread along the cracks of shells and detritus,
And leave the screams of the condemned out at sea.
Everyone is judgemental to some degree. You may not admit, but you and I are slaves to the notion of making assumptions about others, to comfort ourselves in knowing that we have some knowledge of their existence. This whole idea unraveled itself to me today.
I was walking in Walmart with my mother, our normal Sunday routine. I counted the reflections of light on the tile and gave in to my mother’s requests to get items we’d forgotten. We walked by a woman, mid-thirties. She was heavy set and had half of her hair died a dark purple. Yes, only half of it. Trailing behind her were 3 girls and a husband. After she was out of range, I let out a chuckle at her choice of hair color. It was not flattering.
About to leave, we passed the family again. I overheard the conversation. “When Mommy gets chemo, she might loose her hair and need to wear a mask,” she informs her young children. I couldn’t believe my ears. Had I just mocked a woman this strong, a woman who had to tell her kids she might not see them get married? I felt terrible. I should have said something, anything. But what was I to say about that to a complete stranger? I couldn’t just show up and wish her luck. I should not have judged her by her appearance. I’m a fair, caring person. Yet I did.
This is what Christmas is supposed to be, a time when we don’t judge based upon wealth or looks or age. We teach our kids that Santa loves you, whether you’re rich or poor, 10 years old or 90. He watches over you and your character. Santa is real, he is always with is. He’s that loving text from your significant other. He’s a hug from a friend. He’s knowing your dad loves you enough to quit smoking. He’s right there at the source of the blood pumping through your veins. That woman I saw means something great to this world. Maybe I don’t know her, but I wish the best to her for teaching me this lesson. I needed to be reminded.
Time doesn’t fly. It races beside you in your attempt to keep up. I never thought I’d come to believe, as I’m living on Christmas carols and a roomy mug of hot tea. A lot happens in a year. You find a person in the weirdest manner, one who truly cares. We lose people, but we gain new ones. We forge bonds with previous strangers that are now stronger than ever. Your outlook may be slightly or entirely altered. Each day is a new opportunity to find the greatness in normality. I sit atop my pile of thoughts, overtaken by presents and haunted by the stale cookies of Christmases past. Everything is a pool of red and green bliss.
Happiness is like jam. You can’t spread even a little without getting some on yourself.