I wish I were a poet. I’ve never confessed that to anyone, and I’m confessing it to you, because you’ve given me reason to feel that I can trust you. I’ve spent my life observing the universe, mostly in my mind’s eye. It’s been a tremendously rewarding life, a wonderful life. I’ve been able to explore the origins of time and space with some of the great living thinkers. But I wish I were a poet.
Albert Einstein, a hero of mine, once wrote, ‘Our situation is the following. We are standing in front of a closed box which we cannot open.’
I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that the vast majority of the universe is composed of dark matter. The fragile balance depends on things we’ll never be able to see, hear, smell, taste, or touch. Life itself depends on them. What’s real? What isn’t real? Maybe those aren’t the right questions to be asking. What does life depend on?
I wish I had made things for life to depend on.
Jonathan Safran Foer, from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (via mitochondria)
I almost turned back around
mid-moving on and I almost
decided healing wasn’t worth it after all.
I almost pulled that small war out of the drain
I washed it down
just so I could have something
to fight for again.
It doesn’t work like that.
You can’t become brave just to decide
you weren’t made for it.
Because what else were you made for?
You loved someone until you weren’t
a coward anymore
and you never learned how to stop.
You danced at the wrong parties
and kissed mouths that couldn’t swallow
down your Friday night blues the right way.
You told forgiveness you were sorry,
and it never bothered calling back.
Maybe we were all made for more than this.
Maybe there’s still time to change the punchline
until it turns into one that won’t knock us down.
You’re nodding your head,
but you’re not changing your mind
the way you should be.
Here’s to a revolution.
May we be brave enough for it.
May it be ready for us.