Food affects mood. So does sleep. Not doing what we want, or being what we’re meant to be. That kills us too.
But all of us are dying.
The sun’s gonna eat us alive in 6.5 billion years. Or maybe tonight, in dreams. I suppose that’s when Jesus will walk again. Or ride in on a Brontosaurus. He and Donald Trump. Maybe Jane Fonda. Twisted Uncle Ted. Drunken sister, Sarah. And J.J. from Good Times. I hope to meet Eddie Vedder then. He and Hemingway drinking wine. Vedder calling Papa a misogynist. Papa standing up, ready to fight, when Gandhi steps in.
“Be the change that you wish to see in the world.”
We’ll all come together again. Just wait and see. After all, that’s what we do.
For another day. Another moment. Another chance. Because they keep coming. We put off the changes, don’t take advantage of opportunities, and don’t live up to our potential because we’re under the impression that there’ll be another day.
And if not, that’s okay. We’ve done what we were supposed to do. It was fate. It’s been predetermined. Even if we fight, pushing headfirst into battle, that’s the way it was meant to be.
So say we the sheep. Not of the United States, China, The Bahamas, or whatever boundary we choose to define ourselves. But of the world.
Whatever happened to raging against machines, warm-bodied love in the morning, and skipping stones to see how many times an object can defy gravity?
Why don’t we run like we did when we were kids? Barefoot through the grass, sun blessing us with light and heat and freckles, fast and free into days without end.
Bodies in motion staying in motion at constant velocity with no concern for acts made by external forces.