fidesquaerens (marta_bee) wrote,
fidesquaerens
marta_bee

There's a certain virtue, in long subway rides
And missed connections:
A good seat, iced coffee in hand.
Or perhaps a Kindle, or the Times.

Duty still lingers above ground,
Dinner to be made, emails answered,
Preparations made for the next day's trek up the mountain,
Sherpa-less.

But below ground, they wait because they must.
Muscles that moan with weariness,
They take their seventh-day rest,
And a mind too often running itself to exhaustion
Finds the space to just be.
Purgatory, of a sort, but hardly Dante's circles;
Rather, the antechamber,
Where the bride is bathed and anointed and made ready for the wedding-feast.

Or perhaps it's nothing so grand as all that.
Perhaps there is no "because" below ground,
No meaning sorting itself into a pre-ordained shape,
But merely the freedom to play at possibilities
Boundariless as a shapeshifter's colloidal essence.
It is what it is: enough.

*************
So, I eked out a few lines tonight after riding out to Queens and back because I needed the self-imposed space to not get things done. Productivity to celebrate non-productivity, in a way; ironies. Not entirely sure if it's self-indulgent schlop or not, but written schlop is better than unwritten genius, in any event.

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