She sat there waiting,
Waiting for the ordinary
To happen to her,
To shake her in her sleep.
That’s what it is about,
The averaged ordinary,
The casually usual,
And the accustomed mundane.
For miracles perhaps happen,
And perhaps not,
They are meant for the extraordinary,
The petty non-existent,
The delusional phantoms,
And the deceptive mirage.
‘Cause ordinary felt more realistic,
More tangible and more intriguing,
Divinely lifeless and lovingly lively.
For it is us that find extraordinary in the ordinary,
And us that label nature as a miracle,
And us that residue nothing but ordinary.
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About the Author:
Honest, lighthearted and compassionate. All about happiness and positivity. Overtly enthusiastic about Bullets, badminton and soulful conversations. Prefers humor over boring.