summer solstice
I took an evening walk. The air, thick. Humid and warm despite the lagging sun. Saw my first fireflies of the season and a row of wildflowers amongst the stately homes on Third Street. I actually let out a sound of glee upon seeing them. Even though I was alone. I have been frequenting Second Street as of late, skipping the left on Third. So the aforementioned wildflowers surprised me. What would my life be like if I did not care for architecture? If I did not stop to photograph flowers? If I could accept ordinary? Would I be happier? I’ve started stealing flowers. Meaning I, every so often, pick a flower. Not one in a private yard. I’ve only taken them from public spaces so far. I don’t plan to venture onto someone’s lawn and pick one. So I think I’m good. I don’t think I’ve crossed any lines of decency. Today I realized I am alright. Oh, I suppose I knew it already. But the reminder was pleasant. I am me and that is a positive. I do not need to alter my ways. There is a power in being oneself. Not as in acting like oneself but in the actual being. Me. The flower stealing lover of architecture and art and flowers and the color pink. Meaning pink flowers and pink houses and Basquiat paintings which feature pink. The me which has to create something even if only for myself. The me who needs an evening walk and while walking considers all the thoughts which linger. Leftover from the week. The longest day offers more time to evaluate. Contemplate. Rest. In the realization only the present affords.
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You took us with you and we enjoyed the trip and who is to say who a bloom belongs to? It belongs to itself and it likes being picked by a lover of flowers