Dear World: A Love Letter (Stream of Conciousness)

Dear world,

I am in love with your crevices and quirks. The man vehemently dancing with a sign on the side of the road. My waiter at the bar as he slides me a glass of wine and asks me how I am and listens to the rants of a stranger. The nuanced movements of starlings in mirmiration. A funny and nostalgic conversation with my brother. The smell of hay. The apparition of breath in cold. Dancing with friends to Christmas music in the back of a truck. The resonating sound as a piano key is struck.

The middle of Wales (Elan Valley), on the way to the Irish Sea.

I am in love with your conversations; in awe of the movement of tongues and meaning in noise and the ability of our brain to interpret it all.

The colors of your leaves in autumn.

I am in love with your street artists who offer their art and their heart to the world.

I love the woman who walked into a store, purchased a coat, and covered another woman sleeping on the street.

I loved you the other night, when my eyes were heavy and your moon reflected, bright as day, off the snow.

In the morning, when rays of light hit the condensation of fog (and, despite my lack of religious beliefs, my mind dwelled on heaven).

Your very existence, self-sustained, in such a miraculous way. A meticulous axle and spin that keeps everything in check.

Love slips into the cracks of your smallest moments. The smirks and sayings and compliments and moments of brevity and peace. Your sweet sounds as I sit in the middle of a pasture: bird songs and munching on grass. The intonation in the voices of people I care about.

Often these things go unappreciated or unnoticed as we bustle, become busy, and come up with excuses for falling out of love.

When we lose consciousness to these things–the things that build us–that we, perhaps, take for granted… we begin to generalize. The negative aspects of us occur, or seem to occur to me, at least, when we oversimplify human nature. Humanity is doomed, we say. Corrupted. We lie and cheat and steal and kill. We cannot be trusted.

But those crevices include unsung heroes and moments. We save and aid. We fight for causes of higher moral value. We sacrifice. Care, sometimes inadvertently so. We leave the self behind. We are complicated and weird and that is such a lovely thing–to be able to explore and question and learn. To look our generalized nature in the face and blatantly defy it.

These past few months I have admittedly lost consciousness to these things. Despondent. Inside of myself. Rushed and stuck in the mud of bureaucracy. Forgetting the words of the poet you sat in front of me in London. Overlooking so much in my life that I love–so much that never left.  Allowing myself to be inundated with sensationalism and negativity. Cynicism.

And there you sit, unchanged. Waiting patiently. An incessant reminder of the purpose in all of this. Of the things I cannot say, but will be able to someday. Of growth and discomfort and awareness. That it’s okay to feel these things. That I am still myself. That when we feel lost we are simply gathering parts of ourselves until we become new. That surviving this only requires consciousness.

Because love grows and changes and also embraces imperfections. Because the vulnerability of love requires defeat to rebuild and rekindle.

And so I am reminded again, that I am in love with you, world, and life. The only way I know how to be: sometimes annoyed and seemingly ungrateful until the moments I step outside of myself and realize all there is. The balance of appreciation. There is beauty in all of this.

That’s all it takes. Being outside of oneself and putting yourself in another. Listening. Realizing. Becoming aware of the happenings in small moments. In your beauty and workings and flaws. That is love, to me, I think.


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