Definitions of fatuous frolicsome foibles are greatly underrated in their ability to encapsulate the mirth contained within.

There is this notion that there comes a time when one has to grow up and face reality, and really, what benefit can that have except to diminish everything which gave sparkle to whimsy and joy to fantastic?

How did the idea that putting away childish things upon reaching adulthood ever become considered sane or rational?

When I was a kid, I napped and I laughed and I sang songs without feeling self conscious and I never considered that someone else might do it better than me because how they did it was how they did it and how I did it was just fine too.

I’m not suggesting that there are not times and places for a more serious perspective on what’s happening, but this long standing version of humans having more sense because they have less nonsense in their lives really doesn’t sit well within the narrative I resonate strongest alongside.

I mean, there’s a whole contingency of humanity walking around declaring they espouse the values of a character they read about in a book, regardless of there being many many other characters in many other books who have qualities just as worthy of being emulated, and insist that this is real but other truths are less than real? Ironically, the ones who declare it the loudest seem to understand the fundamental tenets of their chosen reality the least.

But this isn’t about anyone else’s choices, this is my line in the sand which I’ve drawn for the express purpose of jumping across and seeing what awaits me on the other side.

This is an ode to my wanton whimsy
and my wandering heart,
A soft space to sink below and soar above
The surreal, hyperreal,
corporeal, arboreal,
even the funereal
depending on something as simple as
my mood
and preferred mode of thoughtful meander.


Photo by Donald Giannatti on Unsplash.