The propagation of an idea,
a willingness to visualize beyond the scope of a limited reality,
and that specific and perpetual state of suffering,
the mundane and yet revelatory commitment to authenticity
that I will not bow, that I agree to wander,
that I will ponder across stretches of solitude,
the thought that we will never cross paths,
as the coincidental probability does not work in that kind of order,
that kind of chance.
It appears that I am clean of serendipity,
as it left me some while ago, for good reason.
I was dismissive and insistent and tedious.
I desired all the parts and not the whole of it,
so why should it reside with me
when the power of another beckons more earnestly,
more fervently, and gratefully, and worthwhile.
I am not adequate. Not in this moment.