This Quality of Being

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Like seaweed in an Atlantic riptide, the hairs on my arms rise and fall, rise and fall.

They claim it my epidermis, yet is it not a canvas to be adorned with this thing called life.

Tired eyes still see. Tired minds still work. I am tired, yet still I feel. If I feel, I live.

The carpet tickles my bare toes with the luxurious comforts this cave does not deserve.

Keratin, so tough as to cheat death; it sits at all extremities pulling at the rest of me. It aches.

A bird squawks or sings or cries or stifles a scream. I hear it but fail to understand. I wish to, but I can’t.

The moon makes silver and the sun makes gold, I’m enriched by celestial gifts. How lucky I am.

I roll paper into a ball, judge the distance, draw on experience and toss it in the bin. A miracle!

I am cold. I am hot. I am lonely. I am melancholy, but feel only mildly bothered. I am. I am. I.

This quality of being, this life, offers no explanations, no laws. I am lawless, yet, I am. A being who’ll soon have been.

12 thoughts on “This Quality of Being

  1. nice piece, quite appreciative of our self as human beings, great diction , yes and we are that special, just imagine the superlative kind of beauty God is clothed with because we are just made in his likeness. The ability to multi-task, run fast, think and may more , God taking care of his children in all parts of the world all at the same time …… nice one

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