Thoughts
that thing.
the identification of which everyone always talks about gloriously obtaining when you recognize the thing it is you love doing more than anything else. or, at least, more than most things.
the discovery of which, allegedly, comes when you lose track of time doing said thing.
beautiful new moon
you are a welcome face
at my window.
you greet me always with a consistent serenity
pure of face and,
should you have one,
heart.
(though perhaps suggesting you have such a mercurial organ is a defilement to your etherial and constant nature)
i reach the end of the shadows and that is when i feel the sun warming my back, reaching me finally, as it had crept higher than the trees. i feel its heat through the worn wool grey sweater i often wear (admittedly one of the more unflattering pieces in my wardrobe and yet something i've held onto for eight years now. which is a thing i am always fighting—my attachment to material things).
the suns fingers slide down my body, starting at my hair, falling down my back, slipping down my calves and then being kicked off by my heels.
Read Morei have been away from this space for quite some time.
it wasn't intentional at first.
but with each passing day, week, and then proceeding month(s), it felt harder and harder to be back here.
i am in a place of transition.
i've said that to a lot of people lately.
but i don't really feel that it aptly reflects my true state. a transition implies that you know where you are going, you have a direction you are headed, something you are working towards, you are moving from this to that.
well, this is the middle.
the in-between and un-done.
i know you get uncomfortable here.
but it's necessary.
for you can't get to the end without going through a middle to get there
the vessel of me— i often think of my body in this way.
as a container.
as something that is capable of holding and harboring and keeping but also having the ability to be empty and having things poured out of it.
namely thoughts, actions, emotions.
but i also just love the word vessel— as it’s another name for a ship.
our priorities aren’t what we say they are, but rather what we do.
Read More
i ran.
and i ran and ran and ran.
the driving feeling that manifested physically beat inside me repeatedly until i acted on it.
i constantly wanted to run away.
runrunrunrunrunrunrun.
the feeling i had, which i interpreted as a need, was constant.
and yet even when i acted on it, even when i did run in some form or another, arriving never eased the command.
it didn’t let up.
“you still need to run” something inside of me would say.
“you have to escape”
“you don’t belong here”
wandering flushes a glory that fades with arrival.
the history carried within things is much more evident within their imperfections.
of objects. of ourselves.
by which i mean:
it is by the worn deck of a boat that you can gauge how many storms it’s weathered.
the lines by a woman’s eyes that tell of how many times she’s smiled because she’s chosen to see the good in life vs. the bad.
the calluses on a mans hands that showcase how hard he’s worked at his craft.
the dirt of our hurt.
it’s a phrase that’s been running across the mainframe of my brain on repeat ever since it came to me a week or so ago.
i’ve been sitting with it, knowing i have something i need to process and write involving the ideas around it, but i've been running away from doing so.
distracting myself. thinking of other things. or not thinking at all.
