3 things a day

3 mundane, normal things

"Positives," he calls them

"Write and reflect"

Find the calm in the chaos

3 things that don't make you want to scream

"It's easy," he says

"Put them in a book and forget"

3 things a day

3 seemingly repetitive moments

"Just try," he pleads

So I do

3 things a day

In a yellow spiralbound notebook

Pretty sentences that mean nothing

Yet, I feel better after

3 things a day

3 things that seem so simple in the moment

"I told you," he says

"Just three things"

3 things a day

3 seconds each

Moments that feel weightless

Ones that give me peace

My happy place is an old Victorian house. on the back of that house is a bench, and that bench faces the forest. When you sit on that bench and stare into those trees, you know that something is there. Something older than the stained glass windows of the house, something older than the books on the shelves or the wine in the cellar. Something so old that it breathes in time with the trees. The longer you sit and try to rationalize the presence, your mind starts to play tricks on you. You think to yourself, "Maybe its just the wind, or a bear." But when you really focus, you know that the something you know is there isn't describable with the words in our vocabulary. That something has always been there, and knows all pain and all happiness, and you know that you aren't alone. Sure, that thought alone is enough to unsettle most people, but that's what makes this place so happy for me. The fact that you something is watching you back, thinking the same things about you.

Some people tell me that I have a rather sick sense of humor, and that I make normal things seem much more depressing than they are. It’s not really my fault, though. Every modern thing we have and know of has a tragic back story. There is little beauty in the mundane things that people do or that we have, whether it be our own sense of joy, or the act of sweeping our floors. There is beauty in the tragedy of life. The desperate grab for good things to happen to us, and trying to avoid death, though it is impossible. We do not strive for simplicity. We strive for the extraordinary, even if the extraordinary things are the ones that lead to the mundane practices. To understand ourselves is to understand the series of misfortunes and mishaps that lead to our creation. There is no fault in finding the humor hidden behind the clouds that blind us.

Misconstructed from leftover, faulty pieces

Discontinued cogs and gears to make up my being

Left in a warehouse to grind myself into dust

Singing slowly, I work myself to insanity

Mechanical clanging is the sound of my heart still beating

Wires exposed to the elements year after year

Becoming more and more frayed, the wood decaying

While rust grows on my body

I work continuously, though I know it's for nothing

Waiting for the day when the people come back again

When the air is filled with the sounds of laughter

Sunbeams on my face while I watch life stop

Something so bittersweet hangs in the air

As the gears turn, but the world does not