When the pink cloud lands in my valley, my task is to walk. The pleasure of its presence can never outweigh the practice this cloud affords me. I walk in a haze of cherry blossom lightness; the future is a blur I do not fear. Forward motion seeds my inertia; my gyroscope is set. When dark clouds gather and the way is overshadowed, I will keep on. When the test begins and I must proceed in the obscurity of night, the lively steps of pink-cloud days will cheer and empower me. I can embed my future with right action and bank the confidence I feel today, saving it for the rain swept days that come to everyone. Progress is positive even when made in bliss.
Get a cozy blanket for the times when the answers don’t come.
When in my sarcasm
I suggested that you ‘guess again’,
I realized that you were in fact guessing,
guessing about everything,
Guessing in order to create a process of elimination,
a tool on which I now recognize you entirely depend.
Guessing as a way of life is a tragedy.
I’m not saying that trying to know every last thing in the world
is an acceptable alternate goal, but to reach an adult age
and not even be able to work your way up to a possible hunch
is scary, scarier than even my sarcasm,
Which at this moment seems interminable,
but I’m sure you guessed that.