Easy. Not so.

So easy to feel. So easy to sing. So easy to laugh. So easy to weep. So easy to be human. So easy to breathe. And cry.

That's the first gift we're all given, this life. We get the ease of being human. Being beautiful. Being graceful. Being challenged. Being ready. Being sweat-ready. Even the ugly amongst us are beautiful in the way they normally aren't.

Because they exist. They persist. The always will. They are us, down to our cells.

The mitochondria churns, no matter how society superficially sentences an organism to it's chambers of strata. Cells divide. Teeth resist. Eyes wet. Muscles contract. Souls bleed. It's all beauty.

Even the most pathetic amongst us is more beautiful than the largest and shiniest piece of granite. Even more than the sweet smell of speed-burnt tire. Even more than the custom bubbles of a private recreational submarine. Even more than the shape of a woman's thighs in genuine moonlight genuflexing atop a blanket next to empty bottles and ignored cheese and fruit unplundered and sputtering candles disrupted by lust... all along the disapproving shadow of an old tree...

Or the stink from armpits. Of hard work. And hard fucking.

We define ourselves by our flaws, our contrast in persistence, how easily we weep and bleed, but our beauties unite us. We gravitate to the seams.

Cell-division and hunger and horniness and the anger of persistence and the ease of forgiveness and how our memory is merely a manifold well of gravity, a chamber of physics propelled by the cruel and loving force of survival, a wanted haunting of never-discovered corridors, an electrical and chemical configuration of electrons and neurons that even our most-talented scientists have yet to figure out.

My brother is one of those scientists. He's about to be a professor. And not one of those shitty professors. He's gonna write books. Textbooks. His brain is that huge. It's massive. Not big in space, but big in storage and recall. And unlike most brain scientists, my brother knows how to communicate with humans. He's taked lessons from me.

We all are given a chance to slay our dumb selves. For some this is a gift and a ritual and for others this is a chore and a project.

For me, it's a process. I'll probably never finish.

It's likely both both. I know intimately my dumbness. And I know the paths of healing. Or I've heard of them.

So good to heal. To feel. To live. To breathe. To smile. To shit. To weep. To be frantic.

To forgive and let the anger become the vapor it was before it formed around me.