My favorite Irish poet
has a poem
called Chugat.

Which means "To you".

And my favorite three lines maybe ever written

translate to

"salvage your heart
never say I left you
say I drowned".

It basically describes my thoughts on love.

It's the time you realize your twenty-something coworker has maybe more talent in his left thumb that you do in your entire being. Or at least now a days. 10 years ago, you maybe could have competed. But also, like, you're not mad about it. There's a switch that flips where it's less threatening when you have colleagues with creative talent and now you just ******* love it instead of being threatened by it.

I had a a particularly hard conversation recently in which I had to defend my badass ***** evolution. I mean, I won. -> Hence the badass *****.

I talked about the time I was in over my head, my first love manipulating me, making me feel less than, making me feel like I owed him just for loving me, making me feel honestly the more that I think about it, just like a *******.

It's literally been 10 years. I've moved on, I'm happy now. I've got the dog and the fence, the ring and the acre and some ****.

But when I listen to my insanely creative colleague's music, I'm transported. Back to my academic days, back to my hippie groupie days, back to when I was a part of a group, part of a thing, part of something ******* bigger than myself. And I see the world in a different way. I see the skies and the mountains and the world to be conquered, not just bills and a mortgage and the weeds I need to obliterate. This was when I created - I made things. Theories, poetry, a future legacy. Honestly, I ******* loved my former life. It makes me secretly smile.

Waking up has it's practical advantages. But honestly, I think the value is in the steps of waking up that shows you the beauty of the world before and after that has value that you should treasure for the rest of your ******* life.

It's that time you remind yourself you're a wildly successfully badass woman in her career but when you re-read your 10-year-old poetry, you're so **** proud of yourself because ****, bae, you were a queen.

Where to go from here.

Wake up.

Out of nowhere, a message in a bottle.
The letter that never came
finally arrived.

I waited for that letter for six years.
And as soon as I got it,
I realized I hadn’t been waiting for it
for a while now.

The way is shut.

You know what you do when a ghost comes back into your life?
You remember it’s a ghost. It’s unliving. It’s not real.
And you move on.

There's a comfort that your own demise is in your own hands.
That someone else started digging it for you,
but you'll finish the **** job.

The graveyard calls
And I want to be a part of it.
No giant scythe scares me
I reap what I sow too.

Nicotine or alcohol
pumping the body full of unnatural things
or just pining over things lost and unfound.
Either way
Just killing yourself more slowly
Than the guy who just decided to jump one day.

No instant fix, just the long-awaited digging
And feeling steel separate the Earth
Muscles tensing
Flexing
Shovel down,
Scoop
Lift
Toss
Do it again.

I never bothered to fix that hole in my heart
because I don't even wanna go near it anymore.
It will just be there.
And I will just keep digging.

Just when I think I should stop
I still
Just Keep digging.

Storage for things I need but not right now.
Can I put my love there?

It's something I will not put away forever.
I'm proud of the mistakes I've made and the glory of love I've lived and died with.
But there's a time to carry my love with me--right next to me--
And a time to store it in the overhead cabin.

I'm a function of 21st Century pragmatism:
Where you don't have to put love away,
you can travel with it.
As your carry-on.

And as I make this decision
to stow my love away
Three feet above my head
I know one day
someday
My love will be sitting right next to me
as we take to the skies.