I was reading “The Last Leaf” by O. Henry yesterday when I realized that so many of us are like the characters we love.
In the book, (without giving you too many spoilers) a leaf becomes the reason for someone to live, and for someone to die.
Is that unlike any of us?
We allot times to things, delay happiness and put a snooze alarm on our dreams. We profess that we are working hard today, to have a better tomorrow.
The leaf becomes us. It ages, it quivers in the wind, and falls to the ground.
But, before it does, it reminds us that we cannot put our lives on hold because we won’t to have a better future.
Every passing second, every missed sunset, every quiver of the wind, and caress of the moonlight shouts that we cannot divide our lives according to the spokes of the clock. We cannot subtract happiness to add it at a future date.
We cannot allow math to rule our lives, when we are so obviously poetry.
1 extra calorie, 2 extra minutes, 3 extra hugs cannot compute who we are.
We are uncountable and tragic. We are alive and amazing. We are ephemeral but ethereal.
We are uncountable, stuck in a world quantifying us through weighing machines.
We are poetry, stuck in a world governed by math.