Midnight musings at 2am, dreams and wakefulness combined

To create that wondrous stairway to possibilities,

That special place where reality is suspended

Like fine dust motes illuminated by sunlight in the peaceful dusk.

Thinking of lost hopes, shimmering glimmers of half- consciousness

Tossing and turning, restlessness prodding, arms half outstretched

Seeking a better life. Seeking tomorrow, seeking today.

Seeking escape from yesterday, and clinging to aspirations.

And now I sit suddenly upright, realization descending upon my

Sleep-numbed mind. I wonder, ponder,

What makes me wake every morning, resigned to monotony,

Drifting mechanically through habit and routine,

While my mind clutches helplessly at expectations yet unfulfilled?

And thus goes my lament. Is it such a grievous malady,

To introspect within oneself and ruminate over regret?

Think about choices, endless roads branching, branching and converging.

Yet I know what drives me every morn, I know.

That mystic force which makes me who I am.

Defining every action, molding every deed,

To fit that idealistic nirvana,

Ripe with possibility and bursting with the luscious fruits

Of loss and labor.

And thus goes my attempt to define the undefinable:

The ethereal pink glow of sunlight, gently caressing my eyelids.

The feel of the cool, solid floor beneath my curled toes,

Reminding me of the general tangibility and solidity of things,

Somehow encouraging me to be realistic.

The soft murmur of water sluicing over my body, rejuvenating

The crunch of cereal and burnt toast, making me cringe, yes.

But again, food for me was never a priority.

The crisp air as I step outside, heightening every sense

For a few glorious moments I perceive, with renewed awe:

The azure, cloudless sky, a solitary bee buzzing lazily

At complete ease with the world and its surroundings.

And there’s the smiling girl, unencumbered by decades unencountered.

Humming to herself as she gazes around customarily

Smiling for no reason but the mere joy of existence, of living.

Something we seem to have forgotten over the years.

What senseless musings, I can almost hear

You, reader, mutter to yourself as you sip your morning coffee

Or pause for a moment to ponder your own existence, perhaps.

But do humour an old woman, child.

For I can fairly guarantee

I have seen more snows than you have summers,

And the cold has oft chafed at my bones.

You may yet learn what life truly means

From a toothless hag such as myself.

For though my body may be withered with the passage of time,

I assure you my wit has survived

That horrific, sucking black hole of time.

Where worlds converge and dreams are crushed

To mere atomies of desire and need.

Ah, forgive me, I digress

My time grows short and I have much learning to impart.

So what truly inspires me, you ask?

Child, you truly have much to learn.

It is not a singular being that inspires me, nor indeed an ideal.

Nor is an object of palpable value.

It is still that very unidentifiable force, that mystic balancer

Of the universe.

Though cynics may scoff at my remarks, I beseech you, reader,

Read on.

It is the trees, the verdant greenery of spring.

That bittersweet memory of love, loved and lost.

Yet that dazzling flash of teeth still resides in that

Most special corner of my fabricated memory.

Permanently embedded; a reflection of my very persona.

It is the satisfaction born out of ceaseless effort, cold nights

Alone with innumerable lattes

Under that flickering yellow tubelight.

Reading until all consciousness melts away, knowing, convincing myself

The most difficult path is the only one worth taking.

It is that very feeling that all is not futile; there is order in the world.

Bordering on chaos, aye, but still a strangely comforting system.

These are the things that inspire me;

The continuous pursuit of my ideal universe.

And I do believe, with due conviction,

That  I have the power to change this world.

This is the knowledge that drives me, that wills me every morn

To cast aside the vicious shackles of fatigue.

For I do not want to, and cannot

Live life passively, drifting through time,

Invisible puppeteers bending me this way and that,

Confined to fate, like an insect trapped in viscous honey.

Do you now see what inspires me?

It is the very pleasure of living.

The knowledge that I have much to be thankful for, indeed,

Do not possess the right to resign myself to misery.

For though I am old, I can’t help but smile at that girl

And look at life, for a moment, through her awestruck eyes.

This is when I gained fresh perspective.

Though life is rife with much despair,

I cannot fret while kindness exists.

While the good continues to outshine the evil,

Where even a single person is joyous among melancholy.

For an ocean is but an amalgamation of drops,

And I am a drop in the universe. A drop that dares to alter,

To live. Truly live.

As my life draws to a close, I cannot proclaim that I am devoid of fear.

But the knowledge of my significance consoles me,

And you, too, are significant.

I never desired immortality, money and fame simply fade.

I am simply a force that shapes the universe,

And time will not bend my will or intent.

This. Is what inspires me.