I’m most high when I’m boring—

at peace watching a bird from my kitchen window,

lips beaming,

face alight.

I’m the highest when I’m not high—

when the sun streaming onto my arms,

intoxicates me—

sans drugs.

My super-boring self is the most entertaining.

She finds happiness in the wind rustling through the trees.

She finds bliss in the smell of freshly-cut grass rushing up her nostrils as she breathes in hard, on purpose.

She finds solace in her not-so-freshly polished toes digging into the cool, wet sand.

My most boring self finds entertainment in the simplest things.

To her, watching a round rock roll gently down a hilly driveway

is delightful.

My boring me

is rather mindful.

She seeks out moments

instead of experiences.

She finds the way there—

exhilarating.

She delights in the tastes of pine needles as she saunters up a tree-lined hill.

My boring self loves red lights because they allow her to watch passersby

and observe the wispy clouds in the quickly changing sky.

My boring self notices laughter and gets a rouse out of various tones that it takes

and the various shapes of the mouths it echoes from.

Boring me gets giddy when she hears best friends

gossip to each other with sisterly affection as they speed-walk by.

My boring self isn’t lazy—

she’s mindful.

She walks with care and runs with gazelle-like passion, taking in all that is around her.

My boring self experiences each breath—

as if it is her first—

or maybe her last.

My boring self

gets that life

is ever so sacred,

and that makes her

the most intoxicating part

of who I am.

And I feel slightly pitiful

for calling

her boring. 

But, she doesn’t mind,

because everything to

my boring self

is entertaining,

which is why

I love her

so very much.

~ 

Author: Sarah Lamb
Image: Strevs/Flickr
Editor: Lieselle Davidson