What were we meant for, we who never feel the inclination to lift a finger to the beckoning call of the anvil? We would rather snake through the gaps left in the construction, like pensive ivy, than strike the hammer down in that steady rhythm; we who may never march or dance on tempo, but feel the pounding explosions in our soul, just as the blooming petals of the morning glory feel the radiant fury of the sun upon their flesh. Our muscles don’t flex to recreate, but yield to the grandiosity of their surroundings, and become servile recipients of majesty and horror. We would pray for light and direction, had it not already swum through every inch of our veins and left us dumbfounded and paralyzed. Every direction circles around our hearts, like an invisible, indecisive serpent ready to constrict, yet too enamored by the sensual undulations of our souls to dare at envisioning a world in which we lie breathless and motionless. Our final exhalations might be a piercing, arctic wind that sweeps the world and leaves a frozen chill blooming within every dewdrop upon the land, growing crystals who reflect and sing a web of tantalizing sorrows, only to die another death each time their beauty freezes and thaws. We would pray for such a death, if not for its cyclical nature, for we know too well the pain of dying infinite deaths. Each time we fly to the heavens, our wings turn to ash, and we strike the earth with the weight of eternity atop our chests. The ground is consecrated in ash, our tears moisten our graves, and our flower blooms again, with a heart and eyes longing to touch the stars, to know their music, and to lie with them in the soft sheets of the ether.