There is nothing poetic about Tax Season. Nothing poetic about getting up early and staying up late to rage through my homework so that I can contribute to the massive haul in one giant breath that is Tax Season. It's a rush of numbers and names, file folders, paper cuts. Staple, copy, file, scan, sign, file, send, stamp, label, file, type, check, pass, fold, file. I feel like a lacy hankie in a business suit tornado. It's strange to imagine how I ever ended up in this world of math, money, and "ice cream" breaks, but here I am, a lot, and I like it.
It's an awkward testament to the truth that life is always surprising you. I make the lame and disapointing assumption that I have some control over the direction of my life and then suddenly reality hits me. Skirting around an accounting office with files stacked up to my nose in my fluffy boots with a bow in my hair. What do you know? Another surprise. But if life limits it's surprises to crazy part time jobs and bad hair dye jobs, I think I can bend through them gracefully. All in all, even on my grumpiest day, I got it pretty good.
may my heart always be open to little birds
who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them, men are old
may my heart stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it is sunday may I be wrong
for when men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there has never been a fool who could fail
pulling the sky over him with one smile
e.e. cummings
No comments:
Post a Comment