Poem: Minimalist in My Eyes
Minimalists fascinate me.
All white and black and grey
Back to the pictures of the early 1900's
The occassional brown of wood and furniture
It's a world so simple
I wish to embrace
But how can I so,
When all I am Is color?
Metaphorical, but also physically
Just... For your information.
I think of them as people who live in a unique world, one up there,
Only for those who achieve enough
And I know I will never acheive enough for them.
But it's okay
I'm okay with observing them from afar,
Going about their daily lives of early mornings
And six a.m. white and black Journals
And 7 a.m. breakfasts and gym sessions
I don't hurt myself with the thought
That my life needs to be together for me to feel alive.
Or something
Like that
It's hard to put into words
When all I can or want to do is think the first word and type down the rest
Maybe I'll do it later.
Still, I'd like to be a minimalist someday
If at all
I feel like it would bring about a certain peace of mind
The kind that comes with living a life
In greyscale and light, latte brown
The same one of wood
With that I mean the color, but it works both ways
This tranquility of water
On a quiet winter day
No, a silent one
With no wind
Or pebbles thrown across it
No ripples.
I think at some point while writing the earlier parts of this
I wanted to say I hated Minimalists
I wonder why
Because a life of black and white is not a life to me
Perhaps?
Or was it too boring
For the me that wrote this a few minutes ago?
I can see her point
She's right, of course
Their life isn't the best one
But maybe
Just maybe
It's the one I badly want
With no consequence,
Or hurt or sacrifice
That has,
for the rest of my life, me
To hunt.
But only for meantime.
.
.
.
Thank you for reading <3!
