I'm sorry for the way my brisk stride disturbs the settled atmosphere of the air around me. The air did nothing to deserve that. I felt lost until you found me, then I left before I could find myself. Now there isn't a leaf, blown carelessly onto the pavement, that I couldn't disturb with the weight of my heavy shuffling. How worthy is a master carpenter without a developed taste for art in their work? I'd rather be the architect- at least then you'd be immortalized in my imagination, instead of the cause of momentary lapses in my concentration.
The ode of contentment is sung from birds perched on tall tree branches; the ode of contentment calls to us, freely chanting “expression” as a means of becoming one with the world.
The ode of contentment echoes throughout the brush of the forest where crickets can be heard at nightfall chirping, crying out to the parts of us that are consumed by cognitive noise- the parts of us that exist outside the moment we’re presently in and experiencing.
The ode of contentment carols out from the visible waves of thermal radiation emitted by the hot pavement we navigate day in and day out; it beckons for us to put down our text messages and yearning for validation- it wants us to seek solace from the anxieties of mass information.
The ode of contentment is heard- but not listened to. Open the box your world is confined to and sing with the birds, chirp with the crickets at nightfall, and be fluid like the thermal radiation emitted from hot pavement; the ode of contentment is the universe’s statement to us, saying “live in the moment, never waste it.”