There is nothing normal about this.
Where you had expected to land is
the journey you had projected
with its line carefully constructed, measured and drawn to precision
on the map moving straight, in the direction towards your goal
There are no lines here. No measurements. No maps to point you
in any cardinal direction.
Bird with out feather,
turtle without ocean,
you are here in this uncharted place
and there is no turning back,
whatever direction back means...
The only direction one can distinguish
is in the sensation of purpose.
A force driving you, though often
you want to think that
you drive it.
And whoever ends up having to pay the cab fare is irrelevant,
because once you have achieved that unforeseeable destination,
there are no more man-made ideas
progress or achievement.
Those only bind you to unimportance,
which does not define anyone
unless they believe it and its handcuffs.
No, there is nothing normal about us.
This map you are forging
with the freckles on your skin
and the lines in your palms
grasping for the tiny siren who
pulled you out of a blissful dream only to drag you into your morning oatmeal
before the sun has kissed the day good-morning,
the that holds in your breath long enough for one wish to be blown
out like dancing water crystal-frosts biting anything exposed
this body you are feeling,
this person you are being
is how you define it.
Blank canvas of energy and potential to
you are the keeper of your own fate.
So, whatever deck of cards she hands you,
play them well.
Because next time,
you might not be so lucky.