Goddammit the Beatles were right.

We swim so casually through our days, creating minutea, forgotten already as it happens.  So many routine minutes that will never become memories.  So many things we do over and over and over again, day after day.  The same yawn and stretch every morning.  The same bathroom routine.  The trudge to work and the trudge through work and the trudge back home again.  The same coffee in the same mugs.  The same familiar faces over the counter at the same 7-11.

The same discussions, about the same political debates.  The same pains in the same places.  The same jokes, with the same people.

The same tastes and same flavors.  The same favorites.  The same tv shows, awards shows, reality shows, and news shows.

Then we go to bed, and do it all again.
If we're really lucky maybe something will happen.  If' we're really ambitious maybe we'll make something happen.  We remember the days that are different, because they are different.

Here we are, spinning on this little rock, in this little solar system, around our little sun, among so many hundreds of millions of other stars in an insignificant arm, in a medium sized spiral galaxy  in this one little galaxy among hundreds of millions of other galaxies in a huge motherfucking universe that may or may not be floating in the middle of an even bigger black hole.  In all that...we...us...you and me and all the other people walking around us are the known pinnacle of conscious achievement.  I think we are meant for better things.

In an endless sea of nothingness, here we are.  Little specs of somethingness. We are capable of such grand things.  Each of us able to inspire, and delight.  We invented gods and godesses, so that we could forget that we are already capable of so much more than any of them.  We gaze outward, looking for the divine, ignoring that we already are.  We trade little pieces of paper for shitty goods and questionable service, and food that isn't, and really only purchase the right to complain.  And we forget
we forget
we oh so graciously forget

That our only true commodity
the only thing of value that we have to give
is love.

None of the else really matters in the end.

You create all of that forgotten minutae during all of the days to put more green paper in your pockets.  And that's fine.  That's necessary.  We all have to eat the poison...but when you search
when you file through the gray upstairs and dust the cobwebs off of all your best memories you discover with delight
that they are all made out of love.

The love of doing.
The love of being.
The love of giving.
The love of grieving.
The love of family, and friends, and solitude, and companionship.
The love of love.