It's Dark In Here
I bumped into an old childhood friend through my online travels. He had helped me find the funny back in the day. Now, he's helping me find the light in the attic.
Where the Sidewalk Ends
Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
**
Alexi Murdoch, Ingrid Michaelson, Sia, Frou Frou, Telepopmusik, In the Heights, Anna Nalick, even Taylor Swift. In my iPod alone, there are eight different songs from very different artists that tell me to “Breathe”.
On a normal day, on an average week, and an ordinary month, such a patronizing reminder from a rag tag group of strangers would undoubtedly elicit a wry comment from someone like myself.
But now I get their point. So all I can say is thank you.
**
The black water trickled up her calves, and had its way with her inner thighs.
“Get down from there!” he yelled from down below, wading furiously through the debris, the tips of her curtain-like hair barely within reach. But his pleas fell on deaf ears, for she had no plans of ever removing herself, her feet firmly planted on the ceiling.
The world looked so much better from where she stood.