What Is Left For Me, Impaled On The Hills I’ve Chosen To Die On.

It is relieving to write what I think. I hadn't realized how ravenous and independent thoughts can be when left to their own endeavors. They can swarm behind the eyes so fiercely that they may pop out. And perhaps that would be a good thing, for a dangling eye can see oneself from an outside perspective, and not one manufactured and manhandled by pesky buzzing thoughts.

I was his worry stone.

he couldn’t pick my face out of a crowd,

Or name a single interest of mine;

he couldn’t bother to wash his mug in the sink,

Or put the coffee on in the first place;

he couldn’t braid my hair while he spoke,

Or untangle the nest he made.

All he could do was rub his hands together,

And wonder where I’d gone,

after eroding me away.

Why is it light is thought of as good and dark as evil? As if the shadows sewn to our heels want anything more than to be like us.

Sometimes when I have a dream, I feel entirely refreshed of my old perspectives. I see everything brand new, as if I’m a different person. What relief. I know now why our minds wander in the fields of the twilight hours. To abandon the stagnant pond misery we wade in and remember possibility, endless as always.

It’s easier to make fun of something than to try it in earnest. How many non-artists laugh at novices, and fear to even look at their instrument, dull pencils neglected in their drawers yearning really for paper.

You weren’t there on the mountain

when its last glacier melted,

You weren’t there in the river

when it’s water ran empty,

You weren’t there by the ocean

when it’s body rested over much of the land.

You didn’t watch the dying happen, but nonetheless, it happened. And one sunny day, when the skyscrapers stand hollow, and the cars don’t run, and the world’s heart has beat its last,

You won’t be there.

Algae bloomed on the face of the lake at summer’s height, like zits in bundles of thick and slimy green. The siren that dwelt deep in the lake’s toes could not bear the warm swampiness, it drove her mad. Not only that, but her sailor girl, her shining beacon of hope for food had wounded her in her escape. She felt rotten, her gash festered in hot white patches. No food, no beauty, no cold deep blue lake water to retreat to. All that was left for her was a walk. To find the sailor girl and give her what was coming to her.

What is love but the desire to feel sunlight through their skin. And hold there.

On friendship:

When I spend time with you all, I feel a ball of light pool in my weary palms.

The weight in my shoulders, the tightness in my jaw, releases like smoke out of my lungs.

I can breathe again, I can laugh again.

I take the light home with me, and it isn’t so dark there anymore.

It is between worlds that I sit, holding the hands of the future. Virtual realities spin before me as threads in a spindle endless, and I marvel at the fabric of us changing. Breathing life into our imaginations. It is here teetering on the tightrope above oblivion that we navigate ever forward. Lead by our ability to imagine something new, something better that what we have now.