"She was carrying a book, and the hand-picked flowers she placed on the bed outweighed even the drag of his dying. We believe it's the silence that's fearful, never the words; and yet whenever she stopped reading to turn the page, he would smile. Perhaps, in that stillness he felt his heart stop searching for instructions on how to live."

Jude ****** - Boys Throwing Baseball

And that is the only thing our heart does without understanding why; it searches.
We are too human to love change, something that is as dangerous as anything we could ever willingly let pass us by, and too human to not look for it anyway.
How some things are so much of themselves that they become their own language, like a bright red silk sliding against the shoulders of a woman, how these things are not made for each other, but made for the moments they are intertwined in.
How silence even weighs from the things that never were, taking from the miracles that were one opened mouth away.
And now, as you remember one specific death the most, you desperately search for the life in everything that passes you by, even the things that you know have nothing to offer.
Even the World, in all It's isolation, gives back to us by pushing us away from It.
Even the small things that we decide to keep for ourselves have come a long way to find us.
A cigarette. A person. A rainfall.
All spend their whole lives waiting to be found.

I feel as if there is a seed that was planted in all of us to search for definition, whether it be of self or of anything else, but search for definition none the less.
As if the things that provide the worth are even there, and not ever more present in the distance of two individual selfs.
As the past would show us, even in its weakest state, it is still distance that determines who is what.
It's so easy to forget that it's believed we spend our time searching for things, when really we're just trying to find where they begin.
Even though beginnings in themselves are easy to find since there so many of them, almost none of them are the same.
This also is why they are frightening; because there has never been anything in humanity's existence that is more terrifying than uncertainty, and finding a lack of, in places that were once full.

Everything turns into:
"There was so much here, and now there is nothing."

Eventually, you start to only think about the specifics in life that were absent from you, and you even try to remeber things you know were never there.
This happens to everyone at some point, and most never understand it when it does.
And at best, you learn to not see people as a place to go.

So we know what the world gives us. And after treating your body as something only used to tell time, we find that what makes us human, usually makes us more.
So now, if at it's composition, something is as much of what it can possibly be, there is always a corner in the world that keeps it's opposite.
Even with you and me.
People talk of living as if we do not die every single day, in more ways than one. Some times, it is because of people, some times it is because the lacking of them.
We talk of living as if we do it so well, but we still have no idea why the heart begins to beat.
We learn the most at birth, and the rest of the time we are just practicing how to lose things.
How to be places without leaving them.
And when we become so much of ourselves that we see others as places, then we turn into nothing but tourists to every person we meet, taking home things that help us forget that despite where we are, there is only one place we are ever supposed to be.

Everything is exactly what it is, and at the same time it is more than what it is.

I spend all of my time hoping you will understand.

It took me two car wrecks and 20 of your mother's favorite pieces of china lying broken on the kitchen floor to realize the world has so much more to say when it is silent.

Come back before you are ready.
Come back as anything you want, but you are still responsible for what follows you.

We need quiet to help us understand sound, as in : we need this tree to look differently under a cloudy sky than it does under a clear one.
The Why comes later.

Your father kisses your cheek and tells you goodbye and you spend the rest of your life not believing him.

People are the most spiritual things we have been given. Not even the trees are more, which we once thought were like the soul : when reached for, you knew was there. And always where you left it. There are some things in this world that you can spend your entire life searching for, and even if you never find it, it would still be worth every empty space you discovered along the way. We are defined by all the things we do not let ourselves forget. We are defined by what we allow the small pieces in ourselves to be. As in : you think your heartbeat is a thud, many of them, but they are all memories, you still keep alive. They are all the places you were at when things were so easy on you that the moments you lived in covered your skin like sunlight and just sat there like it had nowhere else to be.  Whether it be the sound of a baseball rolling off your fingers or the first time you almost wrecked your car and went on with your day, we are the things we do without noticing

The miracle, the way that we have found enough light in people to see them as more than a spit of darkness, is my biggest question.
Because the heart is tender, and more of a song than anything else,
and it is up to us who we allow to echo throughout our hollow bodies, proving again that our anatomy an opera house, and coming home a
form of apologizing without even speaking. You only die as many times as you live, you only come back somewhere one time until it starts to become a
piece of you.
People are the same way.

It was not how her hands
trembled pouring orange juice at breakfast, or how I saw his eyes never looking at her the right way,
but it was the silence that broke my heart. The quiet, the absence of everything beautiful floating in midair, suspended like lungs that
were made to be drowned and never had the taste of saltwater.
Silence, more than any word, carries the weight of cities, it is
the red exit sign, sitting atop the door near the back of every
restraunt that you look for without even meaning to. I want to
write about life, and how much it simply is, and how there is so much
to it, but I can't tell the difference between it, and the moments that
define it. All of these personal infinities that shape us like skin was made from wood and hands made to carve, and I find myself grateful for the small
eternities that come to me.
All of these ways to take the tender from the heart.

Even in your medication, even in the early morning and the foggy air and the heat from a meal your Mother made you, one you ate as if it was a way to recover, your promises haunt you like a quiet hum that no one else notices, one that sits at the back of your skull until it softly melts into something that you call a part of you. And the rain is still there.
Still in its eternal state of trying to find enough within itself to break down whatever doors it believes to be knocking against, and you look right past it.
Your Mother made you this meal, your Mother was singing in the kitchen, the same one that you swear gave color to her milky skin, the same one where you saw that same skin bruised by your Father.
And you don't know how she can make such a place seem so much easier to step foot in, like the whole time you're just looking for a way out but for right now, where you are is okay. With some people, their dreams find ways to follow them when they wake up and then they slowly start to ease their way into places like the bottoms of their sneakers or even their shadow, and then one day, when you try to remember why you are here, and the way the winds would blow right through you in your slumber, you realize there isn't a difference between the skin that held you at birth, (the skin that was there the moment you became and the moment you became less all at once) and the things it cannot touch, and you see that everything is it's own language and has its own way of being and it is beautiful. And every day in your wake, in the moments you rarely remember, you lose a sense as to why, you even forget to ask about it, and it is up to you whether or not you find it, or replace it with the things people give you, because people will give you a lot. They may not notice it, they may not even have good intentions, but they will keep your hands full.