"I'll go to bed early, I have a busy day tomorrow." When I lie in bed, After 9PM, The world changes. Night is the worst time of the day. When you overthink what you're overthinking. My thoughts go to you. No, I don't sleep well. I dream nightmares, When it's day. Always on my mind,' Never on my lips. When will I surrender?
we all carry within us a story that is aching to be told. as maya angelou said "there is no greater agony that bearing an untold story inside you." and it's so true. each of us carry hurt, pain, memories, heartache, loss... we don't know what someone may be going through each day. you may be going through a rough time yourself, but don't forget to extend kindness to others. even when you don't feel like it. think of other's needs before yourself. life is too short not to smile at the stranger at the bus stop. who cares if they give you a weird look. because we all need love, joy, and hope. be kind to others. and be kind to yourself.
I hear night sounds (and it makes my heart hurt) this is the time my chest will be wrapped in blankets from the inside this is the time when I realize I made a mistake, followed by the time I realize I’m still making the same mistake (even right now) I walked for hours wishing something would happen to me (something brand new, I think) I left a note with my email on it -anyone at all
Fill your heart, fill it as full as you can. Fill it with memories most warmly hued and remember them well in all their glorious, sweaty, kindly brutal minutiae.
Remember each drop, each bite, each individual dust mote dancing the still, hot, sunlit February Thursday. Remember how different places all have their own unique elusive smell and how it is impossible to describe this to anyone who has never lived anywhere else.
Fill your heart with all those memories of the best kind of home grown hell.
Fill it until its tears are forced out. Fill it against the long, cold dark of parking lost. Fill it against mysterious hate. Fill it against misery and mud and hard frozen bottle glass lies.
Fill it so full it can't ever sink far down. Burden it with buoyant stories and weigh it with hypnotic winter flame. These are the things of which the cold terror to victory apocalyptic will be born. There are no second prizes here.
Fill it with the certainty of the worn places where the chairs met the table each night.
Fill it with the truth of the gnarled and sun-warm roots and the indisputability of a Beetle motor accelerating and the violent pirouette of each spring and the ozone smell and the way wet wood screams at the sky and the way the sound hits all ears the same regardless of their color or what side of Line Avenue they’re from.
Remember what line you’re from and to hell with the rest. You must mind your own. There’ll be water if God wills it.
You are never too far lost if you still know your father’s face and can still remember getting milk from the tubes in the silver metal cooler and the red cookie jar lid as the adults smoked at the green kids’ table and everyone mostly had blue eyes and red hair and there was always a phantom killer lurking right beyond the only hope door before you were ****** into the mirror world and *******, but kids sure do have to make some rough choices before nine o’clock.
Keep remembering and when you remember, remember even deeper remember in yet greater detail and practice that remembering until you ARE the dust motes the milk tube Thursday roots sun until you ARE each drop of sweat until you ARE the phantom killer and the red cookie jar lid the straight line of smoke rising out of the ashtray and the motor and the scream and the ears and you ARE all these things and you ARE and you can’t really say where these things begin or where you end because you’re not sure that anything really does end or begin anymore.
Beginnings and endings haven’t much meaning after everyone has shown their cards and the worn places on the chairs have met the table one last time.