A few weeks ago, swinging high on a swing in the park, grasping the metal chains warmed by the sun, I looked towards the sky like I always do when I’m swinging. Swing forward, closer to the sky, swing back, further. Lean back, feet to the air, kicking the clouds. Let go of the chains for a while, reach for the sky. Touch its wondrous, soft blue that only a good day can bring about. Then fall back for a while and propel forward again.
It is only on the swing that I have the few positive philosophical musings of my life. It is on the swing I feel as if anything is possible and that maybe if we just keep swinging–keep moving forward, no matter how many times we are kicked back–we can achieve anything.
As I touched the blue sky with the tip of my fingers, I felt like I could grasp anything if I could touch the sky. The sky, however, is not the limit. With the breeze passing over my face, disheveling my hair, I knew I could reach as high as I wanted, even if the place I’m aiming for is beyond the sky–not in my world–because I’ll make it part of my world eventually: Whatever position I’m vying for, whatever career I am aiming for, I can make it one day even if it isn’t part of my world, life, yet.
Then, I got off the swing, with that sort of uplifting feeling warming me–as the sun warmed the black swing–and tripped on the steps. Laughing at myself, I got back to worrying and stressing out about my life and where I’m going with it.
Such is the life of a realist that insists on being a romantic.