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.

The best thing about the English language is how you can say the most without even using it. And how the two things that make us most human, love, and the life that sits inside of us, can sometimes be switched and mean the same thing.
"I live here."
"I love here."
As in, this place, that came about more slowly than anyone could understand, holds any hope or goodness that was ever apart of me.
This place, the only moment in time where you can correctly lose parts of you that were never made to give away, keeps you there the rest of your life wether you know it or not, regardless if you ever choose to return to it.

But of course you will.
You go back almost every day, and listen for sounds no one could ever hear, you take in every beam of light which had no intention of sliding it'self into such a dark pool of hair that floats so gently above the spine, and yet how could it be anywhere else?
And how could you ever not notice such things?
The world itself is it's own piece of life, and every time we forgot to see it we come closer to being incomplete, we come closer to dying with so much left inside of us.
And if you must die, do so with no dreams left to speak of, with no life leftover to silently wither away in an eternal quiet, and with every word softly landed in every place it was meant to be.

As Cummings reminds us, death was never a parentheses,
or a question, or a way of leaving,
but mostly, an intimacy between this world and another.
Consider Caesar, and how he never asked why, or got angry,
or held it against him,
but instead looked up at Brutus with all the strenght that
could come from a dying heart, and said
"You too, my child?"

Some things are even too much for our world to hold.
Even war shows us that once it's over, you can never let any of it stay with you, and happiness works just like that too.
And now, even as you read this,
knowing that the most beautiful of things rarely ever repeat themselves,
you wrote to her saying
"I am still afraid of feeling so alive in a world
that never keeps anything forever"
but it does keep everything forever.
it takes all that it knows,
and puts it in people and we just look for the ways that will keep all of it alive.
And remember how when we die,
the body flushed rigomortus,
will cause the hand to cling to the last thing in its grip.

When I said it know I meant it and now your touch is like 600 degrees
I feel the weight of the world swimming laps in my arteries
and one day I'll learn to speak like it's coming from some artillery
hiding underneath the simpleness of someone else's symmetry
The world could pardon me but that's such a giant part of me and I fear losing myself or losing who I'm thought to be, before you were living blind and I'm feeling like I can't speak but this is the moment that you can see, before you even find yourself you're paying a finder's fee
But how else are you to be free if under the skin is where you find the key, and you've never been 6 feet deep or felt 6 inches in your chest burning to the 3rd degree
Sometimes it's only fear and all you know is how to flee but I carved an anthem about you on the side of a cherry tree, it grew one hundred feet tall and another hundred deep

Today is Sunday.
You watch your mother in her long green dress walk quietly over the sprinklers in your front yard. You don't even question the reason, you question how someone can do everything so slowly, how someone can be so fragile and yet never afraid.

Today is Sunday.
You listen to the gravel being pushed underneath the tire of your Father's car as it comes down the driveway, and you don't hear anything else for the rest of the week.

Within each of us is all the places we have ever been to, except they are still, and empty, and always too cold, and for now, you pretend to believe them only when you feel exactly like they do.
You wake up again with the rain coloring your windows and you do everything you possibly can to be still and simply hear it.
I listen for you the exact same way.

Even in our slumber when we are too tired to see, the world is ever changing, showing us more and more as we look. In the sidewalk, and the dinners you had at a young age that were filled with people and beautiful china set before your hands (but always without sound) you found all of the ways to be lost and have been looking for a way back home in every person you meet.

Even the rain, the way the world forgives us, the way the world exists in its most innocent form, is only present long enough to remind us that all this place will ask of us is to seek the substance of its composition.
And it sits there falling on your window, as if there is always a place for things.

The world began slowly, step by step, like honey dripping off its comb.
The world began like it knew how it would end.
And on Sundays when your feet brush against the wood floor on your porch, and you sit there peeling oranges with the wind inbetween your fingers,
you find it.

The past in it's own way is simply a loose spirit, one that chose to devote itself to the art of reflection, one that shackled itself to those who decided that the act of giving something up was the only logical way to leave the world.
To leave the world the way they came into it, filled with what they were given, which was everything, and completely prepared to lose all of it.
Sometimes, we live the most in the moments before we die, and sometimes, we find death to be the most lively action ever found in our substance.
How when we die, and when we are born, we are held the exact same way, as if there is no difference between the two, as if they could never be two drastically contrasting events.
As if life and death could ever need each other.
I think about those who lie on the concrete with blood that had never known a home other than the body it came from, and how even blood leaves it's place of refuge when given the chance.
How truly complex we are, made of skin and bone as well as parallels and opposites, yet all of them equal in our configuration.
How we find beauty which only came because of a horrible violence the same way we find it when it comes from a conception.
As if there is one without the other.
And to think, everything that God has ever done sprouted from a small moment in time where He simply felt loneliness, and chose to give it to someone else.
As loneliness is the one thing that man has never been able to escape, as it is impossible to escape yourself, and impossible to avoid.
The world was covered with it, and
it's beginnings were described as a great sound, as the first song to ever produce growth, but I believe it was a touch.
That God found so much love inside of him that when his hands first found something to give purpose to, we were given color.
This is the only way we are loved, with what surrounds us.
With the things we lack the understanding to ask for.

It starts slowly.
Like a knife breaking the skin of a plum.
And just moments ago, and even now, as the edge of your pillow holds the top of your neck like a baseball in the web of a brown leather glove, you slip feet first into that temporary peaceful patch of blackness which holds you at the ribs. With it's palms on your chest.
Dragging you through the air to the top of the clouds.
And on the edge of this cloud you sit with someone who loves you.
You watch the wind blowing the top of the ocean towards the beach, as the water reaches for the edge of the sand like it would a lover, moving like as if meeting the coast would save its life.
Like it was coming into a wake and falling asleep all at once.
And then the best thing in the world happens.
You don't see anything at all.
Nothing.
Except for a white marble floor that stretches for a billion miles in every direction, and the same thing beginning 200 feet above you.
And you think to yourself about how there is even a sharp piece of beauty that the world can find a way to stick into your bare stomach in a place that is completely empty.
And the whole time the person you are with never stops sitting with you.
Before you see things like this, it is so hard to understand the type of person you ever  were before, how you could live without accepting such a notion or some specific understanding on a consistent basis.  
And then you stop thinking about that because you remember that someone who loves you is sitting right beside you, and you turn to look at them as they stare off into the distance.
And you live the rest of your life seeing things in color.

Volume I
On Growth

For now, we are young, and we take our time with everything we do.
Mimicking the last and final love of all things which have ever done so. And in this, we find that the world is so vast, so full, that no matter where you go, no matter who has taken you there, you are exactly what you see around you.
You are the beauty you observe in the world, and the beauty of that which you leave behind.
A constant balance of accepting and understanding of this place, versus the change and the color that you add to it, because despite what we do, that is what we were made for.

Volume II
How The World Teaches Us

By now, as we all have, we find the differences in others the way we remember the past; what truly stays with us are rarely the things we ever ask to.
Even heaven was built without hands, just like you and me, and yet the people ask to go places as if they are not already a destination themselves.
Even in empty rooms there is something to discover,
to learn the most in places with nothing to say and at all the long red lights in their passive meditation reminding us to love someone the same way they were created; not because their self, or their will, but because of purpose.
To love someone like nothing is small except everything that came before them, and if the body really is the dwelling place for the soul, it only sits there so it can be found.

Volume III
Better Than Real Life

The body itself is a contradiction, constantly growing and wilting at once. In time, we lose what we feel has been missing, and in turn, become nothing more than what we were meant to be, even if that is more than we would have ever considered.

Despite what you have been told, God is more absence than feel, but who am I to tell you they are not the same things.
It's kind of like, no matter where you are, or who you turn in to, you are always the place that you come from.
And it took you awhile, but now you are here.
You are in the place that took you away by taking you anywhere at all, and this is why: everything that has ever been made was supposed to save you.
And if you believe this for even a moment, then it becomes truth.
That's all we have, all the things singing in their own ways.
Their voices following you wherever you go in hopes you will add to them.


A lot of people will tell you "life begins at conception" or "life begins after....." as if life is something that stirs in a sleep after a certain amount of time.
But you know that this can never be true.
Not the life that you understand easiest, because there is much to be said about it, but at its core, at the place where you lose the ability to break it down any further, we see that life reflects the fragments of the thing that consumed it most.
And that which consumes life the most, that which you have been able to call yours since the beginning is divided between two things : death, and everything singing in it's own ways.