come, at least for that?
there’s so much to do.
so much to finish.
there’s the car I’ve been saving money for.
come pick it out with me?
there’s the gardens we have to plant.
come back to plant the seeds with me?
there’s the Aurora Lights to look at
come look at a heavenly earth phenomenon with me?
there’s a sequel coming out of one of our movies
come watch it with me?
there’s our that life we started together,
come at least give mine back to me.
they are always asking
always, the same question: "how are you feeling?"
i forgot not to answer with the whole truth and nothing but the truth. then again, no one has ever asked that i put my hand on a bible, either.
i answer with less than a lie, too. i answer with exactly what each pair of eyes looking back at mine can handle, can absorb, can tolerate.
their mouths use their mechanics to push out words that say i want to know but their eyes say i want you to stop.
every person means no harm. every person can't help but be human.
anyone that's asked would say they truly wanted to know, truly wanted to listen, truly wanted to help if possible.
but i barely get through a fraction of the answer when eyes get sad, confused, annoyed, even angry.
the conversation ends and not one has ever recognized that the question had barely been answered.
truthfully, i hope it is always that way. i hope it is always an unfinished question and that every person that ever asks again will need me to stop - telling me with only their eyes and never their mouth.
well, everyone except one person.
who will it be, though? who will avoid the question with consideration because it's not something even i can answer.
who will it be? who will not need a question to be asked with their mouth and an answer just the same?
who will use their eyes to watch gently and instead ask about the weather and colors and food and glass and trees and cuts and burns and birds and lions and books upon books?
who will ask all the everyday questions that mean more to me than my illness while still acknowledging my suffering?
who will spend the precious time in life by using their eyes simply to look to me, look with me, look upon me—look within me.
who will be? it will be the one i belong with. it will be the only one who finds out the answer without ever asking it.
it will be someone ive never known to exist,
yet.
i wrote about him in the car today
it was in my head. but i was driving. so i wrote about him inside of my head while my head was inside the car.
does it matter?
maybe. maybe not.
what does matter is that i thought to write about him.
what matters most is that while i wrote about him i also wrote about me and about life and about love and about goodness.
i felt happy - that's the kicker:
i don't write happy. no real writer does. or, at least, no real writing ever gets done when its not about pain.
any pain mentioned was just about withstanding it. it was about understanding it and living with it.
it wasn’t really ever actually about him, at all. it was about learning how to write something real without dying because of it.
it was about me.
so, actually, he wrote about me in the car today. but I was driving. so he wrote about me inside of my head while my head was inside the car and his wasn’t.
does it matter?
definitely.
to her, the wildflower
flowers, terrified of night, preferred to flee in the evening.
not her though. she wanted to stare from the depths of all that saddened each bloomed stem. all that endorsed the many arrangements deprived of strengthening their bond to Mother Earth.
living was her favorite solitude and despite what was seen as the abruptness of The Day’s farewell, these were the first drafts of living: both lasting and enduring.
to her, living would be what it is, not what others pretended it to be.
to her, life could and would be vast in it roots—both heavenly and melancholy, dark and light, full and empty.
to her, leaving to avoid the reality would cause her only an inability to see what she was capable of and who she could and would become—it would cause her a handicap of the heart and an irreversible curse on her soul.
to her, what’s a wildflower without the wild? what’s a flourishing flower without finding fate?
to her, what’s knowing the sun without meeting the moon?