Field I: Tuesday is meant to be celebrated
There’s a certain feeling
In some places…
That Paris happened and you missed it for not being born early enough in the century.
That London is just around the corner in an alleyway, but not this one you’ve found.
That Vienna is in a courtyard
with a sinfonietta debuting a piece you’ll
Never hear, in a place you’ll never be invited to go.
And so it is with some people.
The man past his prime with stories of conquest he’ll never try again.
The boy who hasn’t found his stride
But rambles through life with the elegance and grace of a newborn giraffe.
The woman so broken by her past that she smiles, flawless, revealing nothing from her soul.
Then, there is Ireland.
Warm, alive and passionate. Content to just be honest regardless of her sins. Celebrating life because it’s Tuesday and for God’s sake, Tuesday is meant to be celebrated. Or mourned with equal passion.
Ireland is exactly how she seemed when you met her. And knowing her longer only deepens the love. There’s no devastating surprise to slap you like cold water and wake from the dream. Ireland embraces you, snuggles you in once you get close enough. And stays in your waking dreams long after you leave her.
And so it is with you.