Once or twice
I have been tempted
on occasion
to run away from my love of the sea
A love that could ruin me
Out of salt
and black ink
He was borne
So we waltz with a heavy step
with rosebuds peeking out beneath my dress
Oh the confidence of young lovers
But now
the light in your eyes is dying
and the day has come
where I no longer yearn,
skin of skin
The day has come
where the man of steel and wood
has become sparse
and silver doorknobs appear
where his eyes once were
So I sit deep in forest crevices
at the edges of cliffs,
and dream of the days
with kisses of melted butter
and unimportant things
Yet I feel less like myself than ever
The air smells of tang and despair
For it was I, who first loved you
from across the sea
___________________________________________
It's easy to feel insignificant. Sometimes, when I'm sitting at a cafe and having a perfectly amiable conversation with a friend about literature or films, I get this jolt of fear. I suddenly think of all the thoughts and conversations I've ever had, things I had thought were profound and original, and how they have all already happened. Doesn't it scare you tremendously? That your every blossoming epiphany about life and its pinnacle events have already taken place somewhere in time or space, recorded in a book of sorts. Who are we then, if not vessels to hold the recycled thoughts and experiences of greater people? Who are we, if not brilliant?
It makes me wonder... How does one cope with the feeling of insignificance? We bake cupcakes & take long walks & write long, sad poems & read old novels who have become friends & drink mug after mug after mug of tea. We do extraordinarily, ordinary things. We do ordinary things, because often, it is the ordinary things that make us happy. And I've come to realise that in the end, one's happiness is truly the only thing that matters.
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