Pins and Needles

Isn’t it ironic that aspirations can be measured in numbers,
held inside the nooks and crannies of folded palms,
only to be mixed into bowls of social constructs?
But who am I to question the rationality of imagination anyway?

My weighing scale lives life on the edge,
oscillating between dreams and realities like a pendulum,
while people stand with heads bowed, fingers crossed and eyes closed,
in vain attempts to find happiness at the end of the wrong needle.

People like these make me smile.
I trade my smirks for a gleam in their eyes,
but I have been doing this for 35 years now,
which basically means that it takes decades for a new dream to cross my street.
So instead of letting them walk away with a 45.5 or 76.2, I give them a compass,
and ask them to have faith in the pinpoint of another needle for a change,
hoping that one day their thoughts will wander into places not yet numbered by latitudes and longitudes.
Not everybody understands the importance of letting dreams fly, I know,
but at least, everybody agrees not to weigh them down eventually.

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