I don’t claim to be a wise man just a dreamer of sorts. Making wishes and hoping for the best, while my neighbors only seem to wish to hate each others guts. But all’s quiet under the sycamore tree if you just allow it. While the turnips and the mustard in the garden struggle to take root. At the edge of my senses, I hear children playing, I smell the leaves burning, and see the loggers just trying finding there way home. The pyramids were built for no better reason than why we paste our own vanity filling up our driveways. To make ourselves feel more important than we really are.
So we hold our own, and allow ourselves to get swallowed up by the mundane. While just beneath the surface pure joy and satisfaction await. I walked through the park earlier today noting nothing special in the browning leaves of the trees. What did kind of excite me was seeing all the families gathered around the different areas celebrating birthdays and reunions. For you see more than fame or knowledge or even peace of mind; there’s a certain contentment in the appreciated and the communal. For we are all way more similar than we are different. An inconvenient truth, some don’t wish you to know.