Drenched
The vestiges of the lines of Robert Frost's poem, Birches, appeared blurred on my wet, cold hands. It used to read
I'd like to get away
from earth awhile
Now extremely difficult to make out as it blends into my skin. Each step further towards home made me a little happier more eager for spring, and to sway as the birch trees do when the small boys swing up them towards heaven, and back down again.
Home is sucking the life out of me, the passion, the indulgence. I've found my birch tree, but need to learn to climb it without looking down, without looking around to see if anyone approves.
To rebuild any atrophying passions, simply read a good book, or spend time with yourself.
I've realized that I've come to appreciate humanity for it's own sake. Not for companionship nor for
10:04PM: My left shoulder spasms
I'd like to get away
from earth awhile
Now extremely difficult to make out as it blends into my skin. Each step further towards home made me a little happier more eager for spring, and to sway as the birch trees do when the small boys swing up them towards heaven, and back down again.
Home is sucking the life out of me, the passion, the indulgence. I've found my birch tree, but need to learn to climb it without looking down, without looking around to see if anyone approves.
To rebuild any atrophying passions, simply read a good book, or spend time with yourself.
I've realized that I've come to appreciate humanity for it's own sake. Not for companionship nor for
10:04PM: My left shoulder spasms