I measure my time by nights, by moons. This one is perfectly round and gleans silver like a coin or like an eye.
The days are repetitive, filled with ennui and endless responsibility while the song of the stars is bright outside my window. I close my eyes and imagine myself to a place where no one's ever been. That's what makes it free.
The nights run like sand through the hourglass, smooth like water and hard like stone. The wind whispers of a distant ocean and of mountains and deserts and everything lovely. Everything not here.
I've heard it said not to look behind you (it's figurative -- behind you is where your past lies, like so many found and forgotten things.)
But I find myself instead walking on thin ice above my past, a stormy sea centimeters beneath the soles of my shoes. Threatening to swallow me. The barrier is as thin as a single breath of air.
To transpose the situation that others seem to know, I'd have to look up rather than forward. The sky is very tall and the sun is blinding bright and
I know this path like a distant, half-forgotten melody hummed in the dark. The footprints match my own shoes and stride, but I can’t seem to recall having been here before.
A thousand tiny signals and little marks along the way tell me that someone else was once there, walking with me, but I’ve only known solitude.
The path seems well-kept, not a stick or root out of place. Free of mud and stones, holes and bones, yet I cannot walk it.
cup your hands, roll the dice; make a wish and do this thrice. skip a stone into the lake, count the ripples it will make -- these are the things that it will take.
here it comes, do not think -- chin held high, you do not shrink -- rise up at the place you fell, cast your cares into the well. they say wounds heal, but time will tell.
head stay calm, heart be true: lead me ever back to you. we were always tempest-tossed, ever since our paths first crossed but I know we are never lost.
I find you sitting on the seashore, ocean salt licking your legs as you build castles in the sand. You tell me that you want to -- need to -- create, that you owe it to the world after all that destruction.
When you sit back to admire the stone and sand city, the sea sweeps in and lays waste to the gleaming towers, washing them flat and leaving only crumbled pebble walls.
I tell you that we are not destruction, that we are not the ones to blame and we need not hold ourselves accountable. You say that you know and you sculpt a new wall.
I feel cold all over like the steel-grey sky above me, a smear of stratus clouds. We don't destroy, but building castles in the sand for the ocean to consume never helped anyone.
I tell you the only thing that matters to me, that the most important thing is what we make of ourselves.
I reach out a hand. Think of what we might create if you took it.
the world is so small it's a wonder that we aren't all friends, for I'm always dreaming of a time when there are no more loose ends.
for reasons I've never known, it's when I'm surrounded by others that I feel most alone. I can't stand people when they seem to be closing in, but once on my own, I reach for the phone.
I met a girl, once, with skin painted red. she said she was preparing for battle, but I saw not a soul. I asked what she fought and she said she fought to live.
I have no war paint to smear across my face, no shield to protect myself, no standard to proudly bear. I have but paper and pen, which is enough to build a kingdom, but not a friend.
I am not a princess in a tower, for there is no dragon to guard -- I am here of my own free will. you may think differently, but walking into the lion's den with shoulders thrown back and head held high, every day on into eternity, takes as much bravery as slaying the beast. it's enduring.
November lies like a shroud across the face of the earth, whispering to the plants and birds and singing them to sleep.
the leaves scuttle from street to street like messengers, hinting at future snow like it's something they've been told not to announce. it doesn't matter because we all feel it in our bones anyway.
the Monarchs left first, somehow knowing when to leave despite never having seen the place they left, the place they're going to. no single butterfly can make the trek.
the geese start to bugle with a kind of urgency, telling us to get out now, while we can. they needn't worry. for we are a winter people, and November is only nature.
there's a girl in the rain. I don't know her name, but she looks like a girl I'd like to meet. she's dancing out in the street, bright yellow rain boots on her feet, streetlight catching in her gleaming hair. I wish I could have her elegant joy. • I wish I could have his solid safety. lamplight glowing in his cheeks and eyes, closed in the comfort of his room, his smile like a flower in bloom. his light dispels the gloom; he looks so well-loved. I'd like to know him better and go there.
the night is starless; though the way home is well-beloved, i stumble in spite of myself. maybe because of myself.
i've gotten to the point where i can't tell if my mood matches the storm or the storm is summoned by my mood. either way, the darkness boiling both inside and out are matched.
the more i think i'm changing, growing, the more i feel like i'm putting myself into a box. the farther i drift from society the more i seem to typify their stereotypes.
quiet thoughts descend like rain to lay in my mind when I'm watching out the window and hoping for a sign.
if I let my eyes get squinty, my vision barely blurred, the music stand seems to align with the armchair, tracing a pattern almost familiar but now lost. maybe it's the same as tracing the lines between the stars, connect the dots.
dust shimmers in the sunlight, drifting downwards before it settles on the mantle, because that's where I put things when I want to forget them.
I've basked in warm contentedness before; though it's bright and filled with laughter, peacefulness is boring.
out in the world I could be doing something for others, changing the world before my eyes, beneath my feet, living life, not just enduring.
I belong outside, walking the ways of the world, following my heart and seeking knowledge for my mind. my soul is wild.
II:
I've walked these streets alone, care-worn and world-weary; it seems I'm always on the run -- from something, to something, it doesn't matter which -- but I never get anywhere. and I'm so tired of it.
I wish to be somewhere warm and secure, safe and sure, to rest my head, if only for a minute. it would be well worth it.
I've been tossed through life like waves upon the sea, going with the flow of what people say is good; but at the end of the day, I'm restless and only want to go home.
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