from the paper journal
But the words, they inspire me, the people doing what they do and loving every minute of it, I want that, I can have that, the art, the poetry, the music, drifting across my sky, an ever-changing landscape. It goes on, the world will not come crashing to its end just yet, sometimes I so desperately need someone to hold me, to tell me, don't worry. There's always worry, always something in the world that tears you away, the voices across the room, the judgements, the secret fears. It takes coming home to write endlessly gibberish on a blank page to realize none of the rest matters, things are perfect the way they are because they are the way they are, don't tell me it's any other way and if you're not happy with it, change it around. It's no one's fault but your own.
It's hard, this living, but we're doing it, aren't we? The skies glittering, wind in the trees, my own private correspondence with the universe itself through the songs that come on my radio, the patterns of leaves on the ground, shapes in the clouds. And I reply with laughter although no one is around, with music dancing its way to the heavens from out-of-tune pianos, with moments taken, the time I can't afford to stop and rest but do anyway. This is my religion, my prayer, my faith, not separate from life but tangled up with life itself, never to be unraveled. It's all good, I tell myself, and it is, this messy beautiful thing, incredible how sometimes I spin joyously in endless circles and sometimes the tears don't stop but either way it's so unbelievably real I can't get enough. It doesn't end. It doesn't stop until I say so, I will live my love and my passion until I go out with a bang, or a whimper, either way it doesn't matter, I'll be here always, in the trees, in the sky, maybe even amongst the stars. I'd like to think they're waiting. Hiding in the sunlight and sparkling in the times when we need it most.
It's hard, this living, but we're doing it, aren't we? The skies glittering, wind in the trees, my own private correspondence with the universe itself through the songs that come on my radio, the patterns of leaves on the ground, shapes in the clouds. And I reply with laughter although no one is around, with music dancing its way to the heavens from out-of-tune pianos, with moments taken, the time I can't afford to stop and rest but do anyway. This is my religion, my prayer, my faith, not separate from life but tangled up with life itself, never to be unraveled. It's all good, I tell myself, and it is, this messy beautiful thing, incredible how sometimes I spin joyously in endless circles and sometimes the tears don't stop but either way it's so unbelievably real I can't get enough. It doesn't end. It doesn't stop until I say so, I will live my love and my passion until I go out with a bang, or a whimper, either way it doesn't matter, I'll be here always, in the trees, in the sky, maybe even amongst the stars. I'd like to think they're waiting. Hiding in the sunlight and sparkling in the times when we need it most.