Life Renewed

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Telescope

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“And this is it,” you tell yourself,
one night as you lay still in bed.

The eating and the drinking and the working.
The sleeping to get up and eat and drink and work again.

“This is it,” you say,
trying to put a question mark where there is only the sound of fact.

This is what has become of the small bundle your mother brought home on a sunny day.

This is what has become of dreams—
those things that used to be like telescopes,
always unfolding to make the world bigger.

“This is life.”
The eating and the drinking and the working.
The grasping for significance to find that this day looks much like the one that came before.

“There is nothing new under the sun,” you tell yourself, watching the moon from your closed window, thinking how it seems so small.
So far away.

What happened to the telescope through which you viewed the stars?

“The eating and the drinking and the working,” you repeat,
no longer sure why any of it matters.

“What are the eating and the drinking and the working without the dreams?” you ask,
finally daring to hope that today is not all of life.
Daring to believe that the moon is bigger than it seems.
That it is not out of reach.

You realize now that you always had the telescope.
You were simply holding it upside down.

“This is it,” you tell yourself, as you open the window to discover the stars.
“This is the universe.”

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Written by liferenewed

February 24, 2010 at 8:35 pm

Posted in Life lessons, Poetry

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