Some mornings mercy comes to you in the face of every person you pass. Some days, an infinitely small movement of acknowledgement is all you need. Some days you can be the "great acknowledger".
Some days you glimpse what could be if we all just put down our arms, folded our hands and went for ice cream. On some mornings a stranger’s glance is the most familiar thing. Sometimes beauty is found inside, in that place you forgot to look, and when you do look, you also find all your lost toys and socks.
I wanted to be great once. Wanted to be so many people. Now all I want is to become me. Or at least a better copy of who me is.
There is room for the blues. There is room for Raffi.
There is room for overweight six-foot women with butch-cuts in Canada post uniforms. There is room for grey-haired, tan-suited business men carrying white umbrella’s. There is room for sweat-suited middle-age grandmothers jogging with ipods. There is room for white socks and sandals holding up skinny white legs, an extra-large Kelloggs t-shirt topped off by a tattooed jaw, jet-black mascara and a pompadour. There is room for every kind of child.
There is room for grumpy people as long as we’re not all grumpy at once. There is room for disco, as long we’re not all playing it at once. Room for ecstasy, as long as were not all ecstatic at once. That would be silly.
There is room for accordions. But there is no room for hate.
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