I point my ears to the farthest tree and listen to the needles sway and sing, like a nursery song remembered from childhood.
I’m thinking about mending, about restoring, about the remedy of words.
Dusk settles and my thoughts inch toward alone-ness. When I sit on the suburban steps staring out at the particulates and angels hidden in the ashes of cigarettes, I think of the soul, of how, maybe it smells like the dampness of rain and if it can be mended. A soul who exists in autonomy, hermiting against the waking world.
Content to watch the seeds separate and sow, to watch the birds bend back their beaks in this August heat. The truth is: we exist only inside ourselves, our souls are dormant and our real selves, unactualized.
Often times, we are only ever half a real person. We whisper ourselves to sleep and drown in stagnant waters, warm, and maybe even comfortable.
And, so, the words we use to sooth ourselves begin to ring true; we listen without question, without second thought. It is here that I am reminded of all the tracks I’ve never crossed, all the ones I found myself stepping away from. Even still, I do not understand the reasons why I am here while you are not. I have woken and found myself standing in deep waters, waiting for my world to end. Just spirit encased in a body made of driftwood and echoes and maybe, mystery.