no. 33

I don't think it's about being happy, at least, not to be the aim of all the feelings, all the time. Or escaping work. Or boredom. Or especially not pain. But if there is something. Something to it all. Which touches on, or is even magnified by some of these experiences. Maybe. Maybe it's that deep, deepest connection. To each other. One that we rarely call out. That we rarely use to point. To encompass. To define the meaning. And the purpose. And the pull. That nagging-pulling to the inside of the middle-est of our places. The one that's in fact brought alive by pain, by sorrow, by feeling it so hard. Met, reached, felt only through the experience of love. Of being seen. Of being heard. Of seeing and hearing. Sharing and shared. I find it's those moments that are our truest, core-est, most essential purpose. For being here at all.

no. 32

I may never do the things I imagine. I may fail at every dream. I may never accomplish, succeed, become. Anything. I may never find the energy or the will or the want. To work enough. Produce enough. Do enough. I may never be the product of envy for any other person looking at my life. But I will be conscious. I will be aware. I will be open. And willing to recognize. My priorities. My loves. My capacity to live. As honestly. And genuinely. As me can. And I will not add up my life. As a calculation of quantifiable living described by any other person or culture. Who goes by any other name. Than me.

no. 31

To the days that remind us. Of our frailty. How little it can take. To break apart the ground. To turn it from concrete to sand. Quick and fast. When we feel lost. Numb. Invisible. Please dear earth. On these days. Let me feel your arms around me. Sunken deep below the surface. Not trapped but reminded. That you are the safe womb for my deepest child-self. Who on some days needs not to run away, but to sink inside you. And feel those big feelings. To reach around them. And hold them. Curled up in myself. My deepest child. Tucked deep below your surface. Mother. Remind me. Frailty too. Deserves its place.

no. 30

It's hard. Isn't it? To feel a million things at once. And they're all conflicting with one another. But no one feeling shouting louder than any of the others. And so the only way to be with those feelings. Is to do nothing. Because it's so damn confusing to know what to do, if anything at all. And all the while. To feel like all of those pitiful feelings. Are completely unjustifiable. Especially the ones that tend to paint it all over that foggy thick gray color that mutes all the sounds and all the lights and all the feelings that really want to be coming through that feel like. Something. Happy. And so then. The only real way to feel. Is lost. 


no. 28

There. There. There you are. Seeing it. And feeling it. And the whole time it's me. And I know it. Know it like a moment you can feel a breeze and remember what it's like to feel right now. Because that's all we have. And it's so important. And it makes me feel so loved. And heard. And seen. And I wonder what we did to deserve each other. But I know. The only important thing. Is that we are. Deserved. And deserving.


no. 27

It’s patience. And quietness. And stillness. But not static. Not unmoving. Not dead. I can be here. And just. And let. And breathe. And demand nothing. Not wanting. Or knowing. Or wandering. In the middles of me, while I’m here. Here as in all of time. Now. Feeling everything and nothing at once.


no. 26

I don’t believe in overcoming fear. It’s in us, with us, like our shadows, bathing new mountains before we even know they’re there. But it’s okay. It’s okay, because I’ve realized that it’s my fear, this friend, this soulmate of mine who keeps me present. Just as long as I can mind her like a vice, never to swallow me up or close my eyes, I understand now that she’s the reason I insist. She’s the reason I must. She’s the reason I choose to feel most alive.