people want so much. people mean so much.
i have been mistaking the leaves for everything lately. tonight what i thought was a tiny sparrow splashing in a puddle was in fact just a leaf.
to be honest, i can tell when i write things where i am purposefully being discreet because i know the people who read my posts. i think my most meaningful and heartfelt posts though are the ones where i write openly despite knowing who reads them or hoping/thinking that no one reads them.
everyone is so extraordinary in their own fantastic, lovely, lovely way.
i don’t know if i have a special place in my heart for anyone anymore. i think i love everyone equally. i deeply love and unconditionally care about all of my friends and the people in my life but i don’t think i have someone who makes me want to pour even more out especially just for them anymore.
i remember having more words for you. words that belonged just to you.
there is more i want to say openly. there is more i want to write in the sky and etch into tree trunks but i scribble them into the palm of my hand instead so i feel the weight and the love behind the things i write and so they do not fall upon a numb world.
Half of what I say is meaningless; but I say it so that the other half may reach you.
I am a fucking earth .
My heart doesn’t beat .
It quakes .
Fuck you . I love me .
i feel so loved. i feel so full. i’m bursting at the seams.
i think if i split myself open, i would find that i’m filled with other people’s words. they sustain me and have carried me through everything.
i want to write beautiful words. sometimes i can. i don’t know what the formula is. i don’t know how long i have to wait. how long things have to boil. what needs to pass into my field of vision to spark inspiration. i like to keep my head up when it’s raining for that reason. i want to see faces and skylines and buildings not untied shoelaces and gutters.
everything has been so damp the last two days and i’ve come home from the library late at night and alone and i felt so magnified. i don’t know if magnified is the right word but whatever. i felt bigger than i actually was.
for the first time during these last two nights, i didn’t feel like wanting a different air to breathe. i want to be here. and i want to be somewhere else. i don’t want to escape but i want to experience the world.
i want to read more but books fill me up so quickly. i’m such a slow reader and when i get to a poignant phrase i just stop and think about nothing.
i’m scared to admit to myself that at the very core of myself that i rely on unconditional love and God. lately i’ve felt that love is incorrect. or my love is incorrect. or my love is less than what i portray it to be. or that my love can’t really be unconditional because only God’s love can be like that and it’s ludicrous to think i could love everything. i have seen so little of the world. there might be something so vile and disgusting and wretched that telling myself that i love that thing would be a blatant lie.
but for the most part, i love what i can, how i can. i hope that in the end it wasn’t all hollow.
my friend steven is a an amazing singer and songwriter and piano player. i watched a video of him performing one of his songs and it was kind of a love song. it’s interesting because steven is single and as far as i know, he is not actively pursuing anyone.
i wonder what the difference is between love poems that are addressed to someone in particular versus ones that are simply about love. i wonder which one is more embracing, more ambiguous, more specific, more purposeful.
I love incorrectly.
There is a solemnity in hands,
the way a palm will curve in
accordance to a contour of skin,
the way it will release a story.
This should be the pilgrimage.
The touching of a source.
This is what sanctifies.
This pleading. This mercy.
I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,
close to the inaccuracies, the astringent
dislikes, the wayward peace, the private
words. I want to be close to the telling.
I want to feel everyone whisper.
After the blossoming I hang.
The encyclical that has come
through the branches
instructs us to root, to become
the design encapsulated within.
Flesh helping stone turn tree.
I do not want to hold life
at my extremities, see it prepare
itself for my own perpetuation.
I want to touch and be touched
by things similar in this world.
I want to know a few secular days
of perfection. Late in this one great season
the diffused morning light
hides the horizon of sea. Everything
the color of slate, a soft tablet
to press a philosophy to.