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“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

I'm not yankin' your chain, pullin’ the wool over your eyes, or any of that ****.
This is the job man.
Fly a plane, build a bridge, climb a mountain- do it man. Don't limit yourself.
Unless you’re not that adventurous guy, I mean, that's cool. No inner drive to be outgoing: That's cool, that's cool, I get it, stay with us… work at the Laundromat. There are so many benefits to a Laundromat. Good… well decent money. Not much real work, we operate machines, so whatever really. But the chillest part is, we get to see the creepy stains people have on their clothing... and have a good laugh behind their backs.
These stains tell stories.
Pilots are sweaty under their arms. This tells me they are confined, cramped, caged, we are free in our own little Laundromat world.
Bridge builders have industrial stains; no regular old machine will get those out. We are chillin’ working for the same pay they are at a quarter of the effort. Hikers are even worse. They are soaked head-to-toe in sweat for a view from a postcard- idiots.
It may not be as stimulating as flying a plane; as as helpful as building a bridge; as monumental as hiking a mountain; but it’s the superiorly important.
We are doing the world a huge service. Without us, there would be no uniforms for pilots, no clothes for the bridge builder, and no hiking gear for the mountain man.
Buck up, life could be worse, you could be a more useless guy with creepy stains who flies a plane- builds a bridge- or hikes a mountain and then overpays us at the Laundromat to clean his clothes.

Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune without the words,  
And never stops at all,  
  
And sweetest in the gale is heard;          
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm.  
  
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,  
And on the strangest sea;        
Yet, never, in extremity,  
It asked a crumb of me.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard,
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

that night was a whirlwind. I shared your bed and your secrets and as dawn rose I realized you knew more about me than even my closest friends. in just one night, my world had been shaken when you took me to bed. You held me and we talked through the darkness and I felt happy and secure. you kissed me goodbye that morning over cigarettes and coffee and made me promise to text you. I never saw you again. for months I carried with me the most banal of facts, the things you enjoyed and admired and the things that took your breath away. I carried with me a hope that we would see each other soon. you'd buy me new earrings and take me out for thai, just like you promised. I'd hear you call me darlin once again. tonight I realized that I'd forgotten your name. and for all that I tried, I could not recall. and because of this I know, that just like the leaves are dropping, so will the details of those memories. some day i will be washed clean of that night. I'll forget the precise sound of your voice and even the color of your eyes. The only thing that will remain will be an imprint of the precious intersection of our lives. I hope it will be soft and kind. I hope I think of you and smile. (if anything, what I've learned is to believe the boys like you who say they'll break my heart. you didn't break mine. you gave me everything I wanted for just a night. It's a painless aching, but still it sweeps through my body in the dead of night. I'll learn to believe that even the chillest boy will harm my heart. I will count on self-preservation and knowledge that emotions are temporary and dripping with change)

from the residues of childish worries
i listen to my old woes
where was the world headed? what world was i headed into fast?
i knew
the overglamorization of every little thing that we all “needed” more of
would never fill the empty void that the same society drilled into us like holes
...and my fears that if we are society, we are doomed
gratitude and love filled me up for the wood in my floors and a roof over our heads
for my parents, and other blessings
for love,
i knew love is all you/i/we need
..and I knew what love looked like and felt like, what it really meant
little eyes saw a loveless world, little heart tried to fill the gaps wherever I could
little feet in limited too and young eyes saw
words like love, words like peace just sewn on to clothes just to sell more of it
it dawned on me then that this was the world I was traveling at full speed ahead into
like a never-ending deep dark tunnel with advertisements all over the wall
     Constantly
              Chasing
                                           Racing
                                                                   Towards
                                                                                      Nothing
                                                                                     (more)

..and they will all tell you they’re selling the latest greatest
hippest, dopest, coolest, chillest, most epic, most* dope, most amazing, most down to earth genuine **** that was manufactured and arranged just for "you."
..and it will have “love” written all over it.

years later,
i stood in Urban Outfitters
holding a shirt covered in "love"
handmade, from India
feeling, for a moment, like that just might be what love is
since we live in such a loveless world these days, and it feels so incredibly empty
most of the time
and disconnected
that the only way to connect might just be through labels and boxes and capturing images

born three months early,
it was speculated that I wanted so badly to be alive
...and I had no idea...
what world
i was coming into
and what a world
i was coming into

...and I don’t remember that sensation,
that overwhelming grounding awareness of the real truth that none of it mattered at all...
if little me met me how sad she would be
how overwhelmed she would be by the poison i let come inside
i try
just like we’re all supposed to do
told to do
to cover it up
mask it
bandaid it
clean it up
heal it however and fast
do it all quickly
get over it

go right back into the cycle of it all
buying
spending
relying on happiness from all these things outside myself
like food
like everything
around me
to somewhere, somehow wake something up inside me
avoiding my own awakening
limbs are all numb and dead inside,
and what a waste of a life i feel like
i feel like a waste of a life now

where did my love go?

longing grows
for spontenuity and excitement
for real love for reality
for spiritual depth
for reminders of how I used to feel


..for now I will sit in my cave,
in the hole I dug to get here
And sit.
And sit.
And sit.
And every day just sit.
And then some days go biking
And feel for a moment that I’m getting better.. then the world darkens and wraps its arms suffocating...
so, then, give up.
Then sit
Then sit.
Then sit.

little hands wave goodbye far away
little eyes look down in disappointment
little feet walk away

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,”

“And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I 've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”

-Emily Dickinson.

Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -


And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -


I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me

Above our heads, snowly slowly floated to the ground
Pitter patter like creamy batter it sat with a sticky sound
Through the day I'd stand and gaze at this gift
Soaking the silence like a Zeppelin riff
Pound by pound the snow would come with not a bound
Journeying far to its brethren fellows all around

Acting as a caterpillar
Snowly would float like a distiller
Evolving from a great fractalized city
Till it landed and became but one bitty witty
Snowly may not be the greatest thriller
Though it's clear it is the chillest painkiller

Reaching far into the frosty night,
our eyes can view the ageless plight;
Of fading hours in chillest air,
pretending life has been most fair.

Captive scenes of authentic fate,
from glossy stars that contemplate;
Their world in utter darkened gloom,
while wandering off to find the moon.

Descending from the Milky Way,
are sparks of luster gone astray;
And fizzled in disastrous mode,
like blazing fireworks' fierce implode.

In fantasies of awakening thought,
and mindful of the spirits' plot;
Our souls deplete essential schemes,
and struggle to maintain their dreams.

When I was younger
I knew I’d cry over nostalgia
When I got older
That certain songs would fill me with emptiness and a longing to sink my feet into
Which I once lived in the flesh
I’d experience moments and say I’ll remember this forever
All I have are the memories of promising I’ll remember
Not what I was really doing
Not what I was looking at in front of me who I was talking to about my pants or sharing a cigarette with
Just the feeling
Rushing through my body reminding myself that once day I’ll be old and won’t know this girl in front of me
But I hope she lives her life happy and that I made her night with my compliments and offerings of vices.
I remember the long hallways filled with people smoking and kissing till we had to go home
At 3 am to our friends houses with the chillest parents
I was such a little delinquent
And I loved to be out late in the middle of downtown laughing and walking sideways saying sorry I ******* can’t walk right ladies it’s just the way I am.
I was never a mean girl, just lived, loved to please my girls, make friends and tease boys

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.