possibilities

Sometimes I wonder if my tendency to attach meaning to even the most ordinary things is a product of my being a reader or a writer.

Reading shows me many possibilities. Writing makes me want to seek more possibilities.

Symbolism, metaphors, analogies, lyricism…

Did I learn these from reading or writing? (I suppose the two go hand-in-hand.)

Lightning, butterflies, a speeding car, an ominous cloud…

Do I dramatise things because that’s what I’ve been shown, or because that is what I seek?

Still water, a familiar scent, refracted light, cautious footsteps…

How do I know if it is excessive? An affliction?

Nervous excitement, a poem, fallen leaves, a dream…

Of all the possibilities in the world, I’m not sure if it’s possible to really change this. I’m not sure if I would.

A waterfall, memories, a soothing melody, sunshine…

13 thoughts on “possibilities

  1. I chalk it up to my being an inherently religious person. I had a moment this past week in which I tried to figure out the significance of a boil on my ass. I almost wish I were joking because an ass boil sounds funny but isn’t.

    • Doesn’t sound pleasant at all! I’m trying to accept that some things just happen. Full stop. A bit hard when my mind likes to make stories from everything…

  2. There’s some Irish proverb I heard once. It was something like you’re either a poet or a plumber in this life. To wit, I realized that I’m a poet, always have been, and that books, reading, writing are just a part of my DNA. I look for meaning, and meaning often finds me. So be it.

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