I wouldn’t recognize compassion. I wouldn’t look at the hot-pink tree outside my bedroom window – the one I don’t know the name of – and consider it a gift. I wouldn’t waste time watching a butterfly in amazement.
I wouldn’t think I needed grace. I wouldn’t appreciate a beautiful day. I wouldn’t close my eyes and feel the sun on my face and imagine that this light and warmth that I’m feeling in this moment is what I’ll feel for the rest of eternity.
Music wouldn’t make me cry. Beauty wouldn’t stir my soul. Books wouldn’t make me want to be better. I wouldn’t be compelled to write. I wouldn’t want to help anyone. I wouldn’t listen well. I wouldn’t hold your hand when you’re sad.
I wouldn’t care about healing.
I wouldn’t care about wholeness.
I wouldn’t care about you.
I wouldn’t care about me.
I wouldn’t know love.