With you, it seems like the movie could keep going.
Women of Word
I get hurt a little too loudly and scream a little too quietly
Don’t you miss the days things weren’t just ok, they were good?
And, just like that it feels like I’ve known you forever.
Sometimes – (Randoms)
Sometimes, dontcha just miss the old days? Why so much emphasis on moving on, tackling the new?
Sometimes, don’t you just miss ice cream trucks strolling through summer days, warm breeze, age 7? Don’t you miss summer-filled basement movie nights, without any planning? Just doing, going, seeing where the day takes us aka having fun, sleeping then not caring what tomorrow brings – be it more shows, movies, games, running, sprinting, chilling? That’s youth. Don’t you miss it?
I said sometimes, though. Sometimes, the whole next phase in life thing, adulting thing – seriously what on Earth even is “adulting” – is kinda important. So, sometimes I just miss ice cream trucks strolling through summer days, warm breeze, age 7.
Her Spirit’s a Free Bird
Don’t know why, but it’s Feb 10, and it finally, finally feels like she can go back. Like she can be in a dream again. Like she can see the imprints of stars in the sky again; like she wants to breathe in the rain again. Airy rain. Dirt rain. Delicate, dense rain. Like, like, like, like… again home belongs in her heart.
Her home is plaited with others’ needs, with the wants of simplicity; simpler times. And, her gift is her heart to you. Because, innocence is all she clings to and, honestly, it’s all she understands. Complexity complicates her mind.
She sees the dirt. She feels, oh, she feels the dirt in her hands again. She’s drowning light in the moment again. Every sensory delight arriving – finally arriving.
P.S. Please don’t step on her gift again; please don’t cage her again.
Because, P.S. Her spirit’s a free bird again.
A Lover of Rain – Stream of Consciousness
Why do the cherished moments, the innocent seconds keep fleeing our fingertips? Or, is it only me who misses childhood? Is it only me who misses Paddle Pop in the rain?
I’m ok with being dirt. After all, dirt graced with rain is a scent indescribable, a scent laced with memories and joy, but that doesn’t mean dirt isn’t hurt each time it’s stomped on.
Words, Thoughts, Thoughts, Words
In this moment, with Ek Hee Rasta playing in the background, I feel a depth. I hear a smell. I am close to my sense of home. In this moment, I want to write, breathe, live, see, travel, experience, grow, and grow, experience, travel, see, live, breathe, and write again. In this minute, I live; I am living. Knowing and feeling my aliveness in this second, tears creep to the fore; because, in this millisecond, I am free. I am free. I leap the bounds of society’s expectations of “should dos” and checklists to be checked. In these seconds, I remember a thing, a joy, a past that was once a present, which will soon become a past again.
In this microsecond, I am — again — me.
Just Typing 