Splurging on You
Being geared for receiving is rarely correct math. What we desire isn’t nearly the design we usually obtain. I shriek at the skies, left stumped by singledom. Then ounces of my static clear as the clouds court my temper in morphing a moment to publish a sign of love before my eyes. Oh, the myriad of things that can leap through a brain. We want so much of issues: out of poverty, into money, a family, that partner, fame, our own plot of soil to keep. I’ve always had a soft spot for excellent taste. To ‘perfect’ Bardsfully, “This above all: to thine own self be true”. Splurging on you is the permission to humor the ambiance of feeling into oneself fully. Here within stepping upon one’s own toes are the nuggets of goofy wisdom. How blundering bombastically may still leak loads of intellect. Just as downing the entire can of beans will give way to exceedingly expelling from your arse, so, too, can you anticipate exaggerated gospels of truth whenever you’re sorting out the purpose of you.
That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. ~Willa Cather, My Antonia
It was brief and not exact, but it was real to me. Like waking from a dream thinking you’d prevailed bareback riding that muscular horse valiantly through the pouring rain. Only, you’re snugged under four layers of bed covers sweating from the rush of an illusory scene. I’ve happened through tons of minutes of living that haven’t added up to the longterm intimacy I’ve called craving. All the same, none of it steals the substance from my good intentions to keep searching. Nor does it insulate anything about my worthiness. I’m not minus the injections of romance that infuse me enough fondness to maintain my faith. The way He swept me into his arms at sea, once He hand-wrote letters across summer for me or the time He gave me a midnight snack and made me breakfast the identical day. Having a crush on life can be a constellation of complications if you’re not holding onto yourself seriously. Flaunting works best when we’re dedicated to integrity.
We’ve been crumbling culturally. Now made to reboot. The whole planet has parked itself in pause to concede the space for each of us to exhaust the tops to bottoms of our prized lists. What and whose shifts are you waiting to leave? There’s absolutely no rationale for accepting more shit. Typically, the deviations of my mind form a uniquely special mix of ballet, tennis, yoga, hip-hop, adrenaline and a tiny throbbing slice of Krav Maga sense-memory leftover from bootcamp training. When I think (probably an underlying issue to begin with) about toleration it seems that’s the very last thing that should be transiting my noggin. I fancy the competitive channel is utterly raw emotional steam. Kept indoors with the eruption of this plague it might be eccentric to derive liberation. Quite naturally, I’ve spent my isolation loitering around the opinion that torture is failing to prioritize one’s euphoria.
I’m not scared to be seen
I make no apologies, this is me ~Keala Settle, with Kesha & Missy Elliott, This Is Me (The Reimagined Remix)
Please quit squandering. Grasp your visions. The inventory of imperviousness continues dwindling. I think people’s idea of what a long haul means is wildly varying. Yet, our collective present hides extravagance in its seams. The mold could be unfamiliar, but no less supreme. Maybe a fiftieth birthday set of islands which last spelled out Australia was intended all along to manifest Hawaii. Your (future) husband is liable to be surfing the North Shore, as you’re dabbling practice of the naked page to your naked body. I’m dyed-in-the-wool that we’ve been handed a renaissance. No stronger are the powers of restoration than when suffering has come to play. That book I’ve deliberated writing; that body I’ve imagined glistening back at me in the mirror; that man I’ve meditated on marrying ~ my reissue is biding my participation. There’s a definitive rampage if we don’t fight furiously for ourselves. For every deceased, I beg we don’t survive in vain.
Easter’s on our tail. And hardly untimely with its implications, I’ll say. This is a celebration of one’s (ok, a certain One, but we’re all God and God is in all of us, as my beliefs have encouraged me) resurrection from death. I know people who’ve lost loved ones over this pandemic insanity. For every single soul remaining who’s simmering the opportunity to live for all that’s honorably gone away there’s no time like the present to resuscitate. Any trifling interior states of enduring can be hurled inconsequentially to the Heavens we’re looking toward faithfully. Similarly, we’re meant to be ‘spring’ing forward. Let’s all take a deep breath together to harness this as a life movement and not merely an instant. Splashing in gratification has deserved its own age. In other words, why don’t we all bound into action and stretch our elasticity! It’s about time we abundantly accelerate the whole human race.
May your indulgences lay AWEsome merits and cast off all waste.
