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Sometimes a morning
is not a beginning
but a bridge between
two acts of survival.
A repositioning of a starved ego.
A dreaming and a reworking
of an outdated belief
that still provides comfort,
a reality and the motivational
words written in lipstick
on the mirror, telling you
you are beautiful.
All those self-help books
that do nothing for you,
because they don’t possess
the subtlety of fiction
that shifts the world while
letting you live in the rosiness
of your choosing.
There will be truth
in bite-sized pieces,
dosages of life choices
in red and blue pills
in a bottle with a childproof lid
and the daunting task
of coming to terms
with the greener
that the trees must be than
the green they used to be
for any progress
to make sense.
Good fiction writers
use stuff like that
to establish the passage of time.
Even mathematicians say
time stops when change stops.
There will be clouds and
once you make up your mind
what they are a sign of,
you can shunt yesterday’s train
of thought with today’s
designated motions
and not miss a beat.
Somebody has been keeping
up the rhythm while you sleep.

“Aiya” by photographer Austin Rea


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