I sit here, waiting for the words that won't come. Magic becomes even more elusive on these busy days. It is difficult to see the beauty in a shelf neatly lined with lunchboxes and clothes laid out for the entire week, although I believe in the beauty of efficiency. My childhood self almost can't believe where we are at these days and the weeks are full of moments of redemption. Winter is coming, to paraphrase Game of Thrones. It turns dark early, the last of the light starts filtering away at five pm, and sometimes it takes with it my will to be anywhere but home. So many exciting projects are underway, it almost explains my inclination to do nothing this evening.
A friend and I chat about the many moving parts, the variables of our days, weeks and months. We couldn't tell you where we will be over the summer and I have to send my type A persona to a temporary exile. I keep trying to look for a way to weave the threads together, to be able to say, look, this is the fabric of my life, but it seems that life doesn't lend itself to a neat show and tell. The thing with living with lists is that sentences become a tall order. I care very much about little things like how my phone email app does not allow me to mark emails as unread, making me rely on memory, which these days is unreliable. I have a thought, and more often than not, it decides to float away before I can capture it someplace. Usually it returns, but not before I have a few moments of panic. Memories are no longer a neat box, it is the inside of a piñata just before it bursts. The news plays in the background and it is difficult to not think of the world as an open wound, which is scabbing constantly. But comfort comes in many shapes and sizes and there is little that words and poetry can't help with.
A friend and I chat about the many moving parts, the variables of our days, weeks and months. We couldn't tell you where we will be over the summer and I have to send my type A persona to a temporary exile. I keep trying to look for a way to weave the threads together, to be able to say, look, this is the fabric of my life, but it seems that life doesn't lend itself to a neat show and tell. The thing with living with lists is that sentences become a tall order. I care very much about little things like how my phone email app does not allow me to mark emails as unread, making me rely on memory, which these days is unreliable. I have a thought, and more often than not, it decides to float away before I can capture it someplace. Usually it returns, but not before I have a few moments of panic. Memories are no longer a neat box, it is the inside of a piñata just before it bursts. The news plays in the background and it is difficult to not think of the world as an open wound, which is scabbing constantly. But comfort comes in many shapes and sizes and there is little that words and poetry can't help with.
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