Thinking back feels like someone else’s life, penned in smudged ink on the back of a weathered postcard, on page 67 of a fiction novel purchased at Goodwill for a quarter.
Looking forward feels like the moment when waking from a vivid dream, in a cold sweat, rubbing eyes, and grasping at strings.
Seeking the authentic harmony in the flow of all life has yielded a series of intriguing experiences strewn over the hillsides of folklore and excessive emotion.
Holding out for the sense in the center of the eye has caused sleepless nights, a windfall of If, and an even greater appreciation for the deep, rich, meaningful connection in the world.
We beast it in a world that seems to revel in war and we fracture the earth at the same rate that we get in our own way of what was the version of our truest selves that we saw clearly as children. Losing touch and wasting talent eats away at the soul like an overly corrosive battery acid cures an orange peel of it’s vibrancy. This love we experience cannot be equaled when we truly live it without an agenda, but more so a shared plan.
Sleep! Sleep you crazy bald headed bastard! Dream of hotdog eating contests and tiger lilies and minor league baseball games and county fairs.
Quit taking everything in and attempting to pour it all back as though you knew at that time what you should have. It isn’t your fault that I’m deficient. It isn’t my fault that you never gave me a chance. Make some lavender soap, drink some hard cider, write down your soul, and laugh in the face of limitation as if in imitation of your truest self thriving and breathing just the same. Big hugs from the roots of the industry. I should have stuck by you. The marinade in life is confusing, and it’s application can be blurry. However, the heart can grow in the face of unforeseen events and lives to have a greater capacity of love than ever thought previously possible. I welcome you into my arms without judgment or direction of will. I welcome the adjustment of the ego to enjoy letting go and loving anyway.