(no subject)
I long for the day when I can wake up and live for me. When my life is filled with days of work and play, all of which will be celabrated and welcomed. I long for the times when I can lean my head on someone's shoulder. Wake up next to someone. Open my heart. For the days when I don't worry about losing. I only look forward to gaining new joys. When I'll know that all is as it should be and I can breathe easy. When nothing is held back and passion runs free. When creativity is released, like a dove from a cage. A tiger from captivity. The days when I can write again. Poems and songs and words with soul behind them. When inspiration lurks around every city corner, next to the Starbucks and the laundromat. When sweet music is more than a memory. When life is beautiful and free again.
This is for those days. May they come swiftly and with intensity.
There is no measuring in time. A year doesn't matter, ten years are nothing. To be an artist means not to compute or count; it means to ripen as the tree, which does not force its sap, but stands unshaken in the storms of spring with no fear that summer might not follow. It will come regardless. But it comes only to those who live as though eternity stretches before them, carefree, silent, and endless. I learn it daily, learn it with many pains, for which I am grateful: Patience is all! -Rainer Maria Rilke.