The Problem With Ordinary

Isn’t it just like me to realize
I’m not all the rage.

But with
a bloom in my heart
I gladly reach out and
cuddle the future
in my arms.

Being ordinary
isn’t for the feint of heart
and as I’m relishing just how
basic my existence is
I still push my face upward
gazing at the stars.

Yes, they’re countless
and eternal
and full of light
and passion.

All the memories of our ancestors
gliding off into the dark of the universe.

And I can ask the passing of eternity:
Is this all there is?

So if the pain of being ordinary
means I can watch the glory
of this mystery
then I will put on makeup
comb my hair
blast music in my car
on my way to work.

The trouble of ordinary
isn’t in the way we perceive our time
and the meaning on Earth.

The problem with ordinary is
being exactly that
and not knowing just
how much that’s worth.


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