Unwealthy

She often brings more to most discussions than I do.
It’s seldom that you’ll see me start things that have a definitive end.  
I usually end things that never began.  
Then, proceed to whine about it in the aftermath.  
But it’s her brilliance that draws me to her.  
The blinding light of clarity that she exudes  
burns the eyes of this blind moth  
struggling desperately to be worthy of it.  
  
I’m poor.  
I’m poor of heart and mind;  
of strength and will;  
of words and wisdom.  
But in her presence my idiocy finds revelatory meaning  
and alchemizes itself into sagacity.  
A rather neat trick, done unknowingly.  
My unwillingness to act challenges my indolence,  
with reasons long since discarded yet never forgotten,  
with a vexation that rivals the devil’s own.  
And humility, unseen before, reveals to me the fallacy of my ego  
and the presence of reason that once made conscious attempts  
to avoid my company.  
“Seems like a lot of honours to place on just one person.” Is what she’d say.  
And she’d be right, as usual.  
   
This is not external impulse, to be honest.  
We are simply the products of conditioning.  
The thing that makes us who we are lies deep inside our consciousness.  
The more we react the lesser we notice ourselves slipping away.  
We’ve forgotten how to breathe.  
How to take things in,  
absorb it, disassemble it,  
analyse it, restructure it,  
and then send it out like something that came from within us.  
A conscious thought.  
Not someone else’s mindless gibberish.  
But the world around us is geared to keep us going  
full speed into whatever awaits.  
   
So I welcome her radiant aura—  
like a treasure only visible to the blind;  
like a breath not taken for granted;  
like a thought not carelessly imparted;  
like love not heartlessly discarded.  
—and the transparency it teaches me.  
I delight in the abundance it brings her.  
It makes me believe that someday I can, too, no longer be  
unwealthy.