“Our breath is brief, and being so
Let’s make our heaven here below,
And lavish kindness as we go.”
― Robert Service
I carried this book, pages swept with sea, torn and stained by a hurricane
I carried it to the desert and here it sits
On this old desk
Next to the marigold
Im having trouble being here. I’m having trouble moving forward. What is there to do that can be more important than sitting with a feeling?
I am not certain that I am ever going to be the kind of person that I admire. Maybe it is best time to start to understand the kind of person that I am, right now.
I am the sort of person that takes a long time to figure out a move. I would be a terrible bore to play chess against, because I am forever lingering. I’ve wanted to be the type of person that moves quickly and in a way that propels a growth. Maybe I can be positive in the lingering feelings. Maybe that could be enough for now.
I just know that all I ever want to do is lie in bed and read dead poet’s words. I want to sit in the soft sand again and listen to seagulls fight over corn chips. I want to laugh with my family in the dewy grass and share memories until they feel real again. I want endless night hours, filled with slow dancing to Bruce Springsteen and slipping between unknown meridians of time, because it doesn’t matter, really. I want to sleep in my dad’s oversized old t-shirt until I feel better about waking up and making decisions that move me forward, away from here.