PRESSURE OF EXISTENCE

Sometimes it’s difficult to simply exist because sidewalk cracks are poems and strangers footsteps are untold stories dying to be unbound. Buildings are photos waiting to be captured, standing proudly, statuesque, holding their pose ready to be frozen in time. Mere cheekbones are punchlines ready to be laughed at. Even bare branches are screaming to tell the story of how they gave up their color so the winter snow could have the spotlight. I can’t pass a person without noticing the red pin on the corner of their hat or the cut right above their upper lip. It nearly takes all I have in me to not pull out my pen and start writing their story right there on the palm of my hand. I’m fascinated by lives, the ones being lived and the ones being stopped and started, stopped and started, stopped and started, through a lens of humility. I can’t help but wonder how someone’s day is going or what the rose tattooed on their finger means to them. Most days my knee caps cave in under the pressure of my soul and it’s constant need for discovery. I think the most beautiful thing in the world is the mystery of a strangers smile and the things that have given it meaning; thank God there are so many beautiful things.