my heart is the beating of wings, though my eyes are heavy with reality
I feel like taking a midnight moonlit walk through the streets humming lullabies and trimming the flowers from neighborhood lawns. Making mini-bouquets to hide in playgrounds, mailboxes, car windows, etc. "Nothing says love like killing something beautiful and presenting it as a trivial token of affection." someone exclaimed, proclaimed, determined when I was young, a lesson buried in mistakes... though it doesn't feel like wisdom, just more nonsense to add to the collection. It would be nice, I pretend these things will come easier when I live in my own house, not cluttered with anxiety and annoyances. And I will come home from random acts of mischievous kindness and bake pies to celebrate the wee hours of the morning and the act of acting on inspiration. I am absolutely thrilled about having an oven to bake in again, it's had delicious results, but for whatever failure I haven't made a pie in it yet. I've been eating a pound of strawberries a day since they were on sale, it's made me kind of sweet. Sometimes I wonder if I'll always revert back to anxiety attacks as an excuse to not falling into a more natural state of serendipity. Lurking behind most odd intentions is a fear that I will be raped and punished for going into the world unafraid, assuming I am entitled to embrace life without assault.... it just feels naive. And so I'll hold myself to staying inside from enjoying the minor pleasures of a half moon shining, like a smile, over a night of possibility. Hmmm... the bread just came out of the oven, the skin is thick.