It'll be a we'll see for all the folks who shoulder a whole week for a few laughs on a hot Saturday night. And let's make it for all the times we have to be careful instead of carefree. We'll have a romp and blame it all on everything simply awful done in the name of art. It'll be for reruns of reruns and totally unreal reality shows and texting LOLOLOL while driving erratically and freaks who think value lies in harming others. For all the little hurts, and all the big ones too, and all the thoughts heard and the ones lost in the roar. Because despite it all, don't you know, there it goes.
Come. We'll seek joy down the road while it waits in small puddles at our feet. And we'll look down and we'll leave behind tired arguments and mismatched socks and speak perhaps of private and always personal things called secrets. Did you know? Sh-h-h-h. Don't tell anyone. Cross my heart. We'll talk of life and name it just because. And it'll free us with nothing but a deep breath and a silent challenge to the gods to bring it the hell on.
Will we see an idea's glow instead of its shadow? Will we see that all things happen (or don't) and then vanish, never to be seen again? For when you come back tomorrow you'll be different in some way and so will I. And then we'll laugh or cry or laugh so hard we cry. Wait. Did you know? Everything is fine.
And for those ruled by love or possessed by fear or consumed by power: things that motivate or imprison or both. Sweet kisses on the cheek and cold pizza for breakfast and your wedding day oh so long ago and the things you do so well and the things you laugh at yourself for trying. It's there, just because, waiting like a dream date: that magical, incredible lightness. It lies inside everything that doesn't matter and everything that does. And that's pretty well everything.
Sh-h-h. Frankie's singing.