The Beautiful Gift of Possibility

When I lay here, full of exhaustion, emptied of sleep, a small desperation springs to life in my temples.
It could be the result of too much contemplation,
too little protein,
some misplaced sense of fear.
Whatever the case, desperation, even in small amounts, can drive a person to behave erratically.

This might explain why the part of me who understands that sleep is best coerced into visiting when prompted by reading a book is bowing to the part of me that knows the internet is my number one waste of time.

It seems as if I have a serious problem listening to my inner knowledge and this is upsetting to me.
As someone claiming some kind of super-developed sense of awareness and maturity, I'm certainly not behaving in any way that might assist in corroborating my professed prodigy.

But this is all tempered with the realization that I believe I am finally opening myself to the brilliance of luck again. I'm seeing the bourgeoning happiness of an age now not so far off. There is hope and I am drinking it in like warm, soothing tea.
It's on my chin, soaking my collar, and warming my bones.

And with it comes the beautiful gift of possibility.
Any possibility.

For instance the possibility that my musings will one day amount to something worthwhile.
The possibility that I might find honest, genuine romance.
The possibility that I can own my placement in life and in the world with complete gratitude and meditation.
The possibility of anything.

And just now, three days ago, I believe that luck and possibility may have very well joined forces on my behalf.
Because it's not everyday that you get Earth on your face.

My favorite daydream

Every once in awhile I catch myself slipping into daydream at the most inopportune times.
I'll be walking down a crowded platform through droves of eyes-straight-ahead strangers attempting to avoid their multitude of moving obstacles when suddenly I begin to contemplate just how wonderful it would be if I could simply leap up to the ceiling and crawl along the metalwork above all of their bouncing heads.
The more I allow this image to gestate the less I pay attention to where I'm going and inevitably I walk straight into the only person sipping a scalding hot cup of coffee and holding a baby to their chest.

Then there are the times when I'm dancing around like a fool in a bar full of I'm-far-too-sexy-for-you drinkers and have the secret vision of myself where I mount the nearest table, barstool, or the bar top itself, whip out my cleverly concealed batons and with a flick of my wrists launch the ends into rapturous flames and proceed to shock and impress everybody with my incredible array of daring stunts and fantastic confidence.
By the time this fantasy has completed itself I'm spilling beer onto the only girl wearing a white shirt and she turns out to be a lesbian and thus thinks there is absolutely nothing sexy about it.

And my favorite daydream would have to the one where, when walking through the dodgy part of anyplace, I imagine a whole slough of armed and dangerous individuals crowding around me, brandishing a variety of menacing weapons.
I look around at them, smirk slightly, set down my bag, then say something uppity and just-a-little-condescending but ultimately icy cool like "you really should've stayed home" or perhaps "this just isn't your lucky day". And flying into a myriad of jaw-dropping martial arts moves wherein I climb up walls, flip over whole piles of people, and transition between each blow with the precision and grace of a seasoned gymnast, I completely disarm and totally incapacitate each of the would-be marauders. This ends with me standing in the center of all the fresh carnage where I brush off some stray dust from my shoulder, pick up my bag, and step over the leader of the pack (who's favoring his recently vacated eye-socket) and utter a timeless parting line like "I wouldn't try that again if I were you" or "next time leave the fighting to your mother...oh wait, she's dead, you see I killed her with my thoughts."

Or something like that.

And again, by the time I've allowed my mind to carry me this far I've completely lost track of where I was walking and then begin to realize that I'm totally turned around and about as likely to conquer and crowd of roaming miscreants as I am not to need directions.

The worst part of these cruel fantasies is that they provide me with such a genuine thrill, a rush of excitement and adrenaline, like the world actually is full of the potential for such adventure and dashing affair. And then it's gone.
As soon as I am made to remember that they're only in my head I come down so hard that I feel every tread in my shoe's footprint like there's a giant weight pressing me further into the ground with each stride.

And from such a gritty grind there is no waking.

When it don't come easy

Whenever I meet with a time of particular trying inactivity I feel my patience being forced into a hundred and three pushups. With every hope of a new opportunity there is the surge of energy allowing me to rise up and glimpse the possibility that my waiting is at an end. Then with every disappointment I sink back down until my proverbial nose touches the floor, inhaling a fresh dose of oxygen, looking for the inspiration necessary to make me press myself up again.

Even as my will wains I know that my patience is being conditioned into a stronger, more dependable core element of my humanity. I'm getting those few steps closer to accomplishing a genuinely meditative existence. This is a constant goal albeit I find enough distractions en route to its accomplishment.

I refuse to be held to the ground by mere gravity. It's a constant and therefore I am already well aware of its persistent pull. I have built up a resistance to its finite limitation. I have superseded its deadweight. While I may find myself in limbo at this time it is no guarantee that I shall never reach the base of the mountain, beginning my lofty climb.

And soon, so very soon, I shall reach the summit, above the clouds, and see the stars.