Split by 3

My body won’t support it anymore. It won’t put up with it anymore. It’s had its final aches. Its final orders from the mind sweatily obsessed with perfect straightness and potential. My body will not go ahead. My spirit and higher will disagrees with the ideas of the mind. My mind comes up with clever plots and consults ideas thought by giants among humans. Despite this constant effort, it never truly succeeds. Clicking, coming round; revolving. Not ashamed, but rather eager to find the secret, find the one thing that will undo the stomach tied knots. My spirit always knows what will happen in the end. So much so, that it laughs a hearty bunch when I’ve come back again. I’ve tried my best and lost the sight I needed. Maybe I never had it. Maybe I had it for some time but it’s gone all the same.

So then, my craned head looks up at the sky from a slate grey coffee table in the middle of the city. I can’t understand it. Why do people find beauty in the reflecting sky with its wisps of white. I am unable to realize the beauty of it, of it all. It’s all there and I know it’s all there, though under a foreign spell. The solid blue sky, vibrations of human hearts, thumps of tired worn boots, clacks of selfish high heels, hasty squeak of sneakers, and silent humbleness of bare feet. The masses of bodies in and between the concrete prisms. Each with blood to pump, eyes to see, nose to breath and soul to make choices one lives with. I still can’t see it. The beauty of a human. If I could see it then forgiveness would be a sure result. An accomplishment that would materialize an obelisk within that would extend outward, understanding everything at once and resting.

My saving grace, my last chance of redemption is written on the walls. As people pass by with intent, with lives to live, and worlds to see. I sit in the midsummer sunshine accompanied by faltering breaths of wind observing a bird on the scaffolding above. My saving grace: I am no more important than the bird on the scaffolding above. I’m not worth more than the drunkard in the alley beating a dog or the dog itself. More importantly, is that all these things individually are etched with inherent beauty. Bird, drunkard, and dog. Once I realize this beauty and enact forgiveness, then I might be able to medicate the aches, stomach tied knots, and gain a simple beautiful sight. A sight that would allow me explain this whole story in just one perfect word.