In the quiet of my cluttered room,
where books stack like old friends,
I sit with a steaming cup of tea,
wondering how many hats I wear,
and if any of them fit quite right.
The news flashes images of the wise,
earnest politicians and their solemn ties,
while I contemplate the art of being lost,
the exquisite freedom of a careless tune,
a dance with my own shadow, endearing and free.
We are all fools on this spinning ball,
tripping over our intentions,
laughing at the grand plans of yesterday,
but the wisest laughs back
at that splendid moment of confession.
Once a month, I raise my hand,
admit to all my foolish pursuits,
like chasing birds that don’t wish to fly,
and I’m met with a wink from the universe,
as if to say, “You’re getting warmer.”
The truth, if you can bear it,
is that wisdom wears a shabby coat,
and spends its evenings telling stories
of missteps and missed trains,
appreciating the art of perfect mistakes.
So let us embrace the tangled threads,
the joys of splattered paint on canvas,
and celebrate this dance of blunders,
for isn’t it sweeter to sometimes believe
the fool is holding the secrets of the heart?