these overcast skies are still enough to make you squint, looking out these dusty bus windows in search of answers to the questions flooding your head. such weight is on your shoulders, arms heavy at your sides and a nervous bounce in your foot draped across your knee. you’re in it right now. and where are you? trudging through memories and missed opportunities, the things you tell no one you regret. we aren’t supposed to, darling, but we’ve all got shoeboxes lined with things we’d rather have done differently. you’ve got too young of eyes to look this sad. burdens of people much older than you and i, but that’s something we both deeply cherish about ourselves. the beautiful sorrow we see in sepia toned afternoons, rocking to the sway of public transportation. getting lost in thought on city streets we’ve passed by for years.
we spent our summers in back road canyons, sharing secrets neither of us expected. and you told me not to carry it all but that’s exactly what i did. i don’t think these sad eyes were meant for you, but they sure shone when they were.
i must learn to care for myself, to allow myself the space to let the light and air in to heal what i keep so locked away, to forgive myself for all of the days i neglect what i need to survive. life becomes too full of sadness and the sweet allure of drowning in big emotions takes hold more than it ought. it becomes far too simple and comfortable and commonplace to scatter myself across the floor, shattering my identity into a million shards of pitiful nothingness until i feel so completely lost yet familiar with this lack of me. i may hold on for days or weeks at a time, but the all too expected downfall begins. the cracks form and soon enough i shall be no one once again. i lace up my frustration and squeeze into another layer of self-loathing, its sleeves constantly shrinking and buttons coming undone. i hate the way it feels across my shoulders, the stitching accentuating the parts of me i’d rather cover up. perhaps i shall wear it out one day, pull on the sleeves until they come off. maybe then i’ll be free. but until then, i’ll hold it close, warming my frozen fingers in the deep pockets i’ve always known as home.
small glimpses of Me tonight. in the slurred moments between days and forgetful honesty, it poured forth. reluctantly, like rusted faucets. all it took was a pinprick of courage and not much more certainty to allow Me full view, but it was sublime all the same. little specks of truths flickered in their eyes and He will never be the same. fresh air has touched these sealed corridors and the dust has unsettled. cobwebs shriveling up in the sunlight, making room for a great awake we have not expected. once or ever. new synapses must heal and pull together to strengthen, connecting my spine, growing together in time. good pains.
i don’t suppose they will ever know the ways in which my soul fell into place before their very eyes, and perhaps they shouldn’t. clarity ensued as the last tastes of wine fell from my lips and my tongue swelled with ambition and anticipation as chimes echoed through hollow corridors, reminding us tomorrow is well underway and must be prepared for whatever may come of it. all i knew was He would be there and he was no longer dragging his chin through the mud, cluttering up the goodness just above the reach of his downcast eyes. it’s the sun He’ll be looking to now and it doesn’t matter if no one else feels the same way because in this moment-and forevermore-He is infinite no matter what circumstance may lie.
it’s snowing today, letter-writing weather.
the house is warm and quiet, save the deadened hum from the furnace, and time seems slower from the weight of precipitation outside. it couldn’t be a more perfect day, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, my world becomes quiet and still as weeks of neck-breaking pace settle on the floor. we must grasp these moments as we would a baby bird because any attempt to contain such delicate perfection would crush both our spirits.
snow days are for cooking, and more so, baking.
rolling out sheets of cookies and muffins and filling the home with sweet goodness is a luxury saved for todays. echoes of time spent with grandmothers bustling around cluttered kitchens, flour-stained aprons and extra dashes of vanilla for good measure. dishes wait for tomorrow or the next day, for we have eating and listening and nothing else to do. we brush by too often the commonplace in a day in the life, but not now. we touch the tips of fingers to yellowed parchment photographs and great- great-’s recipe cards in attempts to conjure up deep spirits of time long past. and slowly and seemingly as mornings turn to evenings and the snow pauses and forgets to resume, our day is snuffed out. but the quiet remains as the subtle promise of see-you-later takes hold.
the skeleton trees lining these busy city streets seem tired of this season of prolonged cold. lifting up their hands, shrugging off the atrophy collecting miles beneath bark. they know times such as these are good, they’re strengthening and regaining what was lost in months of selfless gifts poured through canopies of green. we may never learn lessons such as these, of sacred abandonment so seemingly like death. we cut ourselves down before we even know what’s happening, let alone what we’re doing. but sometimes when the sun is kind in the middle of march we can feel the familiar release of patience long accumulated and our rough skin cracks enough to let the light in. it is time such as these that the quiet, unassuming conversations and passing glances on city busses land softly and perch precariously until acknowledged. their presence is enough to keep my world in motion as i wait for spring to bring into fruition all of these things so close to the surface yet still out of reach.
i never quite know how to start something. i have these laundry lists of grandiose ideas or projections of future events but never the beginning point, the very first step. and it all boils down to the fact that i never really do anything. if there is no obvious, attractive start, well then that would only diminish the beautiful plans i had to begin with and it would all be shot to hell. like a marathon cannot be run well if you don’t get off the blocks right, or a painting will never hang in a museum if the preliminary brush stroke is slightly out of place.
and you see the insanity in this notion.
the complete overthrow of a perfectly beautiful thing simply for the blemish of its initial step. but it is a perfection that freezes me in the wake of all this ambition that leaves me perpetually on the shores of this huge life. perhaps if i trained more for those first steps, practiced them over and over so they would be just right. then the spontinaiety would be lost and again, it would fall to a premeditated series of events too mundane to write stories about. or pehaps i shall only start things from now on without any plans to finish, and maybe that way i could never mess a plan up. maybe if i began something without any anticipation or agenda then i could be fine with dropping it at the moment of my boredom. if i got so used to starting things without a care it wouldn’t be so scary anymore and i could make these grand schemes of beauty and success without the lumpy expectation of perfect execution. what a great plan all this is, but where to start?
the vacant skies opened up and let loose all of the unspoken thoughts gathered up and stored by the thousands of sentiments misplaced throughout the past week of lifetimes. and she whispered to him small nothings that meant everything. you see, there’s no use in questioning all of these things that are falling into place because everything has its time and maybe you’ve already had yours, spent yours carelessly. it wasn’t so much the past that held tight to his breathing but the hollow spaces distributed across the years spent underneath unyielding shelters he built alongside everyone else. picking up nails and hammers just to do his part. she offered him adjectives to fill the silence, bitter qualities she admired in herself she stuck to him. he brushed them off knowing it would come to this and she would understand in her own way, but it wasn’t his. She knew too much and nothing at all but regardless something had to change because both had stopped breathing a long time ago. it’s always these skies dictating the course of the day, smudging its will all over our faces, messing up our hair just so. who asked the trees if they enjoy being covered over and over or if rain enjoys the fall or if i prefer the frozen days? who am i? who am i?
The Loneliest Whale in the World.
In 2004, The New York Times wrote an article about the loneliest whale in the world. Scientists have been tracking her since 1992 and they discovered the problem:
She isn’t like any other baleen whale. Unlike all other whales, she doesn’t have friends. She doesn’t have a family. She doesn’t belong to any tribe, pack or gang. She doesn’t have a lover. She never had one. Her songs come in groups of two to six calls, lasting for five to six seconds each. But her voice is unlike any other baleen whale. It is unique—while the rest of her kind communicate between 12 and 25hz, she sings at 52hz. You see, that’s precisely the problem. No other whales can hear her. Every one of her desperate calls to communicate remains unanswered. Each cry ignored. And, with every lonely song, she becomes sadder and more frustrated, her notes going deeper in despair as the years go by.
Just imagine that massive mammal, floating alone and singing—too big to connect with any of the beings it passes, feeling paradoxically small in the vast stretches of empty, open ocean.
that’s the saddest thing ive ever read
This more or less just tears me apart inside </3
(Source: erickimberlinbowley, via went2mars)
what if all we ever wanted was just an illusion?
took the words right out of my soul.
in some place i would rather be, there is someone wishing they were here. if only i could be grateful for this air in my lungs, the land under my feet, and the view in my eyes. would do a restless soul good.