when life gets hard, frenetic, fast-paced we're always tempted to see the worst. Don't.
My word of advise, the perogative which I function under is that you should always push yourself, kicking and screaming, into the next level of workload. Fuck it, it's worth it to push yourself, strive for the edges, ride the night with pencilled statements and cans of soup, work until your head aches and everything's shaking and then push it further. Let a skulled moon shine down and work, go to bed, wake up, and do what you have to do to push yourself through another day. But take heart, dear, in knowing that this work is nothing, a braid of black smoke in your life, it'll fade. Get through it, tear into it and make it dissapate. Let it finish, dry, and reduce until you're just left with the dust.
Then is the time for winter nights and screaming streelights. The sigh of someone next to you clutched hands rushing fingertips rock climbing down the knuckles of eachother's spines learning a silent braile.
This, will be yours when the work is over, when you've got through it.
For now you can always take comfort in cold breezes and falling leaves. Autumn picture postcard trees and the high cirrus clouds beading the sky. The stars at the night, the fog of the milky way. The smog of cities, red suns, sense that everything is greater than you, but you are part of it.
i plan on re-reading this whenever i'm in this mood again. the thought of then is the time for winter nights and screaming streetlights is exactly the imagery i want tucked away just-in-case. you've got a way of making me see the other side of things.
My word of advise, the perogative which I function under is that you should always push yourself, kicking and screaming, into the next level of workload. Fuck it, it's worth it to push yourself, strive for the edges, ride the night with pencilled statements and cans of soup, work until your head aches and everything's shaking and then push it further. Let a skulled moon shine down and work, go to bed, wake up, and do what you have to do to push yourself through another day.
But take heart, dear, in knowing that this work is nothing, a braid of black smoke in your life, it'll fade. Get through it, tear into it and make it dissapate. Let it finish, dry, and reduce until you're just left with the dust.
Then is the time for winter nights and screaming streelights.
The sigh of someone next to you
clutched hands
rushing fingertips
rock climbing down
the knuckles of eachother's
spines learning a silent
braile.
This, will be yours when the work is over, when you've got through it.
For now you can always take comfort in cold breezes and falling leaves. Autumn picture postcard trees and the high cirrus clouds beading the sky. The stars at the night, the fog of the milky way. The smog of cities, red suns, sense that everything is greater than you, but you are part of it.
Stay healthy.
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