To leap towards the stars,
and find one’s face in the mud.
And yet do it
over and over again.
To learn the taste
of the ashes of hope,
and yet remember
the sweetness of its return.
To sleep uneasy
in the dark of fear,
but with a dreaming eye.
To perfect the art of
escaping disappointment.
Until the day,
one stumbles into
the perfect disappointment.
From which there’s no coming back.
No other choice.
But to sit with it
and be devoured by it,
over a lifetime,
and more.
The perfect disappointment.
That stills
the see-saw of chasing and escaping.
That removes
the need to arrive at a point.
That reveals
the stars scattered in the mud.
And then.
The perfect disappointment
is also
the disquieting freedom.
To become disappointment to others.
To disentangle the roots of oneself
from theirs
and let the roots breathe.
To feel
without the burden of time.
To look
without a lens.
To see them
and be seen by them
with nothing but
the naked eye.
The perfect disappointment
is the tainted blessing
that one receives without seeking
and seeks without knowing.
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