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.