one word would be worth one thousand pictures (seventenfourteen)
i wonder how long we’d sit here, darling, waiting for fears to melt away in that thick lazy sunshine. could we fall asleep on the lawn in the purity of this moment and never whisper another word about desires that came and went, or all the dreams that popped quicker than those party balloons.
soak in it, darling. bathe in the clean light of the truth, and forget all about the worry that held us captive. can’t you hear the branches murmur to our eager ears? he comes to make all things new. feel the grass between your toes, watch as even the shadows are made to dance. we are glimpsing in a mirror dimly, but there is form and rhythm in that mirror, and our hearts begin to tug at the memory. don’t be ashamed, we were made for this.
how long must you sit here, until you hear his voice? he is calling to us, and his voice is strong. are you listening, in the overwhelming warmth of every summer sunset, we might catch the song of our lover, the one for whom even the shadows frolic and sway in his symphony.
there’s a learning to be lessoned (seveneightfourteen)
i had been summoned to room 05, band-aid in hand, to patch up one of the little fellows who had managed to cut his finger while practicing martial arts. as i rounded the corner and came into the room, i saw five boys in a neat row, all about half my height, turning and swinging in time with their teacher’s short commands.
the wounded little warrior dutifully stepped forward as i scanned the row, silent but holding out his right hand towards me. i knelt down to inspect the battle scar, only a paper-cut, but still i ripped open the swab to clean his wound. he shivered at the sudden sting of it, wide eyes searching mine, fearfully asking why i would hurt him, yet not saying a word. he pulled his hand away, i reached out and took it again.
“i know it hurts, but i want to clean out your wound. only a few more seconds, promise.”
he grimaced once more and then it was over. i wrapped the band-aid, he shuffled back to his place in line, and i went on my way.
even in the simplest daily stories of paper-cuts and alcohol swabs we may learn a lesson or two. in our lives, growing can be like a swab on our fresh wound. at times it hurts, but there is cleansing even in pain, and it will not last forever. we will make it through in the end.
i’m not sure where you’re going with this (sevensevenfourteen)
writing is a building i always burn to the ground the morning after each party. i’d sooner bury it than let it be sold to every passing tourist. i breathe deep at the fluid way we can send waterfalls over the edge to lick the shores of our dry, parched hearts. i like to take long, cool gulps of words though, and i don’t enjoy vomiting up sentences purely for the sake of filling a void. writing is art, and art must say something worth listening to. let me catch your eye without blinding you.
i realize that at times i seem distant, however i truly love listening to your stories. strive to tell stories worth listening to, worth remembering. we only have one shot at this my friend. don’t write a story that’ll put us all to sleep before we’re even laid in our grave for the nap in between. away into the mountains, dirt underneath fingernails, and live a life that makes us belly laugh with tears from the telling of it.
though i’ll never capture you this way, i always yearn for the power behind the musician, as they pull us deeper into the magic. how they swell through our chest with each rise of a spell-laced tune.
at times i must be dragged down to the thankful river to drink, but when i finally arrive how deeply i gulp up gratitude, for the simplest moments. the breeze as it cools branches after a hot summer’s day, the sway of relief those branches return. my shivering chest when the river water envelops me and my jeans even in the hottest part of midday in july. sunset glimpses through the tall grass and strands of her hair, how i always try to capture it in a glass jar and call it a photograph, though i know deeply that the moment needed breath and wind and warmth to live.
i’d sooner burn five dollar bills to keep us warm on the beach than wake up twenty years from now, cold and controlled. we were called to freedom, darling. come, let us steal once more from the universe. we were created to dance, and no robot could frolic as we do in the bravery of a sweaty summer nightfall.
he whispers still to you and me, do not be ashamed of the passion on his lips. an old man told me love is too young to know what conscience is. take my hand, let’s swim out together, i won’t turn back.