When we are young we think
time is brimming with endlessness,
looking upon it with an insolent interest.
We are crowded with naive wonder,
that, in retrospect, is a touch frightening.
Should we pay our dues for blindly trusting
because we were deep in the
misguided haughtiness of possibility?
No. The world has gone ahead since then.
Now we call scrutiny to
things we once tried to mask,
the scent of indifference will no longer suffice.
We are singularly aware that our lives shifted,
hopefully lifted, by our conscious efforts
to make ourselves acquainted with
the person we’ve newly, truly invented.
The insignificant babble goes silent,
the extraneous distractions
reek with tension and disappointment,
and we must look inward,
never deserting our daydreams,
to unleash the truth.
We must rapidly empty ourselves
of the mumbling pleasures of
who we thought we were,
the vacant witchery of our youth.
We substitute that with speculation,
the intense need of all we want to be.
This, acting as the driving force
so we may inhale our faults, into extinction,
embracing the experiences
that make us struggle within,
rise above the priceless moments
that shape us enough,
that promise a mountain and
reveal an articulate impact, so that
our future is not curiously shuffled,
but confidently decided.
Photo credit: Lanaya