Do What You Love

No one wishes for the wind in their ears.

They wish for the sun on their face

The rush in their veins

The escalation of their soul.

No one wishes for the callouses on their hands.

They wish for the pride in their art

The flash of inspiration

The rhythm of applause.

No one wishes for the sweat in their eyes,

For the pain in their joints and chests,

For the dregs of the comments section,

For the close to open shifts,

For the charred photographs and unanswered phone calls,

For the fear and the crash and the rash and the rain.

But the love sustains us. The spoils of battle do come.

The favor of the muses demands stalwart devotion and humble exertions.

But the nectar of their affection sweetens the bitterest trial.

When the work is done

When the race is run

When the song is sung

When the war is won

The pain and dirt and sweat and ruin feels a bargain for even a second, suspended, awash in the cosmos.