The only thing real is this moment.
Everything else is all in your head.
The rub of your jeans on your skin;
The sunlight that makes closed eyes see red;
The lingering whiff of perfume or cut grass
And how it makes your lungs
Gag or swoon, drags out emotions.
And that’s all we have, really:
It’s all we’re allowed.
Everything past is a dead thing,
The future, a dream we are not promised,
And that is not owed to us.
Yet, why is it so hard to stand in it,
To claim the only thing we are given;
Why so uncomfortable, so brittle, so tense?
Why do we run so? Why do we escape?
Wander? Drift? Worry? Daydream?
We sacrifice our one gift for fantasies,
For yearnings and wishes and wants.
Picture attribution: Sneaking up on the ocean, Some rights reserved by cometstarmoon. Copyright belongs to the creator. Use of this picture in no way indicates an affiliation with the creator of the image, nor does it indicate that the creator shares the views reflected by the text.