Missing in Inaction
You know, I'm rarely writing here anymore because I am trying not to spend my life in front of a screen.
I have this vision I am trying to manifest.
I pass pages between my fingers, this dim light and warm hum is no substitute for the pockmarked, time-stained paper that smells like library shelves and unspoken promises.
My heart is on fire, and I am casting my spirit out into the stormy oceans of the unknown.
Everything is scary, bright, new, old. Startling and fresh, as soon as I get comfortable everything in sight has shed its skin again and I am seething with the unfamiliarity of a world I thought I would recognize anywhere.
Nothing ever ends. We just walk in circles and pass the ends of loops through our fingers until we find new and old loops to occupy our hands.
And it's delicious.
And ours.
And now.
I have this vision I am trying to manifest.
I pass pages between my fingers, this dim light and warm hum is no substitute for the pockmarked, time-stained paper that smells like library shelves and unspoken promises.
My heart is on fire, and I am casting my spirit out into the stormy oceans of the unknown.
Everything is scary, bright, new, old. Startling and fresh, as soon as I get comfortable everything in sight has shed its skin again and I am seething with the unfamiliarity of a world I thought I would recognize anywhere.
Nothing ever ends. We just walk in circles and pass the ends of loops through our fingers until we find new and old loops to occupy our hands.
And it's delicious.
And ours.
And now.