A couple of days ago I spent approximately one-half of an entire day with bubbles. They are fascinating little spheres of air and soapiness that spur on such trivial happiness. And given my inuitive analysis and far-fetched relation to such things, here are my conclusions:
Ironically, life is just a bunch of bubbly bubbles. Sometimes people and places provide fresh, fragrant smelling soap and allow me to create big new bubbles. This is exciting...they grow and they grow and the splendor of their enormity slams me. And then sometimes I just spend all my days hopping from one slippery bubble to the next. Falling, yes, but the hopping is such energizing vitality! But then some little punk ass kid comes along and sees to it hilarious to burst my beautiful creation, leaving only me really knowing and treasuring the growth of such ornate beauty. Then, regretfully, sometimes all the bubbles burst by some air-raiding, bubble-popping monster. Bitter, yes, bitter, I become. Spoiled, yes, how spoiled I am--to have been such a benefactor of such things. Then with high hopes I stringently search the vast skies in hopes of some prized bubble to cling to, to hop upon. Nothing. A damned emptiness of bubbles. Then a thought comes over me. Yes, yes, I have a strong inclination that there are more bubbles. Simply put, though, I have not the eyes nor the heart yet to see or create them. The bubbles will come, yes, both small and finite, and yet also deep, expansive and encompassing...just as I will come along, so will they. Yes, so will they.
