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An Ever-small Collection

I remember when love was young

and I was young right with it.

But the sun

would rise

and set

and rise

and I began



To forget it.



I used to have this belief that one should never try to write, & so, I didn’t.

I waited. I waited for the words to come naturally, to wash over me like a summer rain, but when they did come, they were nothing more but drips of scattered showers. I still, in my self-proclaimed Bukowski-esque mindset don’t try to write. But I am trying to give myself time.

I’m getting older, my hands are becoming increasingly calloused. Greys are sprouting up at the top  of my head. I thoroughly enjoy the quiet. I seek it out & embrace it when it comes running to me. I savor the smallest moments, morning coffee, rainy day walks, my window rolled down in traffic.

I used to believe that remaining stagnant and becoming satisfied only limited what one was capable of achieving. I don’t know if I believe that now, in fact I don’t know what I believe. Right now I am the definition of ambivalence, the host of the coexistence of opposing feelings; I am both okay, and highly frustrated with that.

I guess when I started writing this I expected to figure something out towards the end. I expected reach some great conclusion, but instead my mind is more murky than when I started out, and maybe that’s just it.

We cannot wait for something to find us. We must tear into all the beautiful things beneath the earth. Feel the soil against our fingernails, fill our pockets with river cobbles, and feel the weight of nakedness. We need to envelope the wind, permeate our lungs with mountain air.

Press pen to paper until the ink bleeds out,

fingers to keys until there are miles of broken sentences before you.

Be curious. Be kind.

Maybe it’s alright to try


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