In Which I Am Happy

Sometimes I sit in class and take notes on basic threats to internal validity in psychological testing and their solutions and only think about beauty because how am I supposed to think of anything else when the sun is just on the other side of this cinderblock?

(Sunlight always births run-on sentences.)

Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them. 

- A. A. Milne

Extremes almost always, in terms of probability, regress to the mean.  Weeds are flowers, flowers are weeds, and both are beautiful.  People think beauty is an outlier, but I think it's the mean.

I'm humming some song by Vampire Weekend and the girl in zipped-up boots with decorative laces sitting next to me is trying to ignore me and I should be stressing about inferential statistics but it's Winds-day and I'm going to go home and drink honey in my tea.

Up

Maybe

My mind has

Fallen in love

With the crazy and

Beautiful idea of

A perfect infinity

Where

Losing

Direction

Doesn’t matter

Because every way

My feet fall my eyes are

Cast up and finding the stars.

If

The sky

And the stars

Are infinite

In scope and number

Then wouldn’t the heavens

Be ablaze with burning gas?

Why

Doesn’t

Darkness spell

“Ex nihilo”

When light is always

Sparked with verdant effort

And tracked down by moths and souls?

But

Although

My mind flies

Up and on and

Out my body aches

And sinks and falls down stairs.

I’m stuck with lurpy foal feet.

“How

Can my

Finite self

Be infinite?”

Is a problem for

Epistemology.

I’m distracted by dark skies.

And

Maybe

All I mean

To say is that

I’m wishing I could

Giraffe my neck closer

To the star-fire blazing sky.