the most beautiful thing: enduring meaning
It is a funny little thing, the ability to last. Over years there are habits, memories, friends and freckles that hold with me. And in the wee hours of the morning, it is the endurance of sleep that I prize most. And in the final hill home on my bike after work, I thank my enduring strength and breath. And in the arms of a lover, though the obvious would be the phallic endurance prized by many, it is the endurance of wanting that keeps my heart afloat.
And then there are the others’ enduring endearments that play on my mind and heart so often. How her voice has been the same all these years. How his eyes flicker with the same brotherly malice. How the lot of that crew will always have the same arguments wrapped in a mixed web of clique and family and rivalry. And then there are your words.
Your words sit there on that page and simply do not move. They do not sway in the wind. They do not yield to my beseeching eyes. They do not combust and disappear as I think they must again and again before the page reloads. And every time I am left to ask myself what to do. What does the enduring solace of that moment mean. Because every time I can make it mean anything I want.
My ability to pedal hard all the way through that last stretch means my legs are strong, or is it that I had a rest day yesterday? My sound sleep right up to the edge of the alarm means I have a mind free of worries this morning, or is it that I am simply more tired than usual? My enduring desire for him means that there is a strong chance of making it, or is it that I simply do not want to be let go of ever again?
And your enduring thoughts of the vision captured in a cloud of blindness means you will never forget, or is it that I simply hope you never will?