Map of life

 

It's a hard-won

fact of this flight,

that the image seen

doesn't contain more than

an ounce of your life.

That it is only a skin suit,

and that the soul

it holds inside is worth

so much more.

 

We can hate this suit,

believe me at times I do,

but it isn't YOU. It is just

the image that the world

is shown, to portray you.

It can't show the intricate,

delicately built memories,

or the fight it has taken

to stand at all, let alone

to stand tall.

 

And though some

of the marks and scars

we hide, share a tiny portion

of the map of our life,

they don't show

the mountains we've climbed

or the rivers we've had to swim

to arrive at this point in time.

 

And yes, it's easy to look and

see that image and think it

paints the whole story,

a watercolour washed down in tears,

an oil that doesn't mix well with its peers.

But my god, beneath that surface

there is a whole wide world roaring.

 

There are so many miracles

that we ignore daily,

the fact we are even here at all.

That our leaf decided to fall

from our familial tree. And that

it fell in this time-span, not one

a forest of time away, in this

universe of possibilities.

 

So yeah, I may not be a picture,

not conventionally. I may not

have the body of a god,

or the face of a model,

I sure as hell won't win any prizes.

But I'm a miracle, as are you.

If you forget what the eye sees,

and listen to the heartbeat,

feel the soul's seas

and the way they rush over you.

So don't look in the mirror and see

the smile hanging half-mast.

Raise it to the sky,

and start living at last.