Daffodils
Animal crackers
Spontaneous singing
Chocolate
Fuzzy socks
Random bursts of happiness
Warm bread
Picture books
Little ridiculous things that can make a room full of strangers suddenly start laughing together like friends
A Letter to Fear
Dear Fear,
You’ve always been here for as long as I can remember. You’ve really grown on me. With every crisis we face together, we become more inseparable. Every time the world around me shatters or caves in, when the dust clears and I am left alone in the silence of uncertainty, you are there. And you help me as I slowly begin to put the world back together, piece by piece. You tell me what it should look like. What it does look like. And I build it that way.
You are always there to keep me safe and warn me of what could happen. You tell me not to risk rejection or injury. When I reach for something that could be dangerous, you remind me of the scars on my hands from where the shattered pieces of the world cut them. Don’t open your hands or the scars might bleed again.
Sometimes I think you do too much. You hold me too tight. When we rebuild the world together, you paint it in darker colors than I remember.
You say you are keeping me safe, holding me like this. You say you do this because you care about me. But do you know that my lungs are caving in? I can’t even breathe like I used to.
You are so close to me I don’t even know where you end and I begin. I guess this is because you don’t end.
Sometimes I think what you feel for me is beyond just caring. And it’s not love. It’s possession.
You have always said you would never leave me, no matter what. You said I would never have to be alone, because in the moments when I am most alone, you are always there for me.
But I think maybe I would like you to stop being there. I want you to let go of me and leave me alone. I want to trade your company for the ability to breathe again.
You can leave me alone now. I’ll be ok.
I can say this. I can say it over and over. But all the time I’m saying it, I am the one clinging to you.
Because I don’t want to be left alone,
Sincerely Yours,
Me
Silent Words
Odd how you can see a heart
Without knowing a face
Silent words that touch your soul
Out of empty space
Odd how you can show your thoughts
The ones from deep inside
Because when you are miles away
There’s no reason to hide
The World Through My Eyes
The world through my eyes looks different than it really is.
Sometimes it’s a bit darker.
Bigger.
Or Smaller.
Sharper.
More frightening.
Less welcoming.
Sometimes it’s blurry.
Soggy.
Covered by a film of salt water.
Starting to dissolve.
But I live for the times when I see the world as a little brighter.
Bigger.
Or smaller.
Softer.
Full of possibility.
More embracing.
Overflowing with a thousand different kinds of beautiful.
Lovely.
Lovely.
Full of simple vibrant existence.
Sneaker Stonehenge
There are two sneakers on the floor of the living room, propped up against one another like they are posing for a photograph.
If the entire human race was suddenly obliterated, no one would ever come back for these sneakers. If every living thing bigger than an insect ceased to exist, these sneakers would never be moved.
They would stay here forever. Untouched. And over the years, the insects who came to inhabit this house would regard it as a great landmark. They would use it when giving instructions to their friends on how to navigate the house. Turn left at the newspaper. Turn right at the sneakers.
And when the names had faded and the memory of humans was dead, the insects would regard this landmark as a great mystery. No one would know where it came from or what it was or how it came to be. It would be their Stonehenge. Their architectural mystery. Their wonder of the world.
And no one would ever know that, a long time ago, this great and awesome landmark was merely footwear for some long forgotten species.
Summer Umbrella
I think I should like an umbrella.
Not the sort that keeps the rain off.
I should like a different sort of umbrella. A summer umbrella.
An umbrella to hold over my head on hot days when the sun is melting down my neck and the air is thick with heat.
An umbrella to hide under when it’s so hot that I don’t want to move.
I should like an umbrella to keep the sun off, but not just that.
I should like an umbrella that would rain on me.
Two Perspectives on a Light Bulb
The milky glass is as delicate as a frozen soap bubble. It whispers under my fingertips as they brush against it, reaching for the switch. A smart click. The light comes readily, eager and bright. Without the lampshade there is nothing to stifle it. It beams. The air close by it tastes warm and smooth. The filament crackles almost imperceptibly, like the contented chirping of an insect, so proud and happy in its work. It glows. A thread spun from flame and saturated with liquid sunlight, illuminating its own small world. It guards its surroundings, securing things which would disappear in an instant if not for the bright light painted over them. A loyal and tireless sentinel. So fragile, and yet so strong. Casting its light so far and so freely. It flickers every now and then, winking, just to let me know it’s still watching over everything and keeping the shadows at bay.
The glass is glossy smooth, but I know how sharp and quick to injure it will be if it breaks. And it is so liable to break. So brittle. So fickle. It would give in at the stress of even the slightest impact. Yet the light is strong. A false pretense. A hypocrisy. It is oblivious to its own weakness. The light is harsh, pressing my eyes relentlessly, scouring the room, and refusing to let anything alone. It is impossible to ignore, demanding attention. When I look at it it blinds me, determined I should see nothing but its own glaring white blaze. I can almost hear it mercilessly sucking the energy it needs. I close my eyes and the filament burns through my eyes lids, branding itself on my vision even in my blindness. A faint crackling scraping sound scratches at my ears. Not so much that it hurts- just enough to make me wince. My nose wrinkles against the smell of heat and metal and the light flickers. The bulb is loose. I try to tighten it properly. It burns my fingertips.
Putting the World Back Together
I’m sorry I can’t fix everything
I can’t put the world back together
because the pieces are magnetic
but both negitive
or positive
pushing away from each other
refusing to touch
This is the world I live in
a world that spins
or falls
in tight spirals of chaos
like a yo-yo
and I can’t stop it
But I’ll do what I can
to help you
to save you
even when I think the yo-yo string is going to snap
and we are never coming back up
Even when all I can do is listen
Even when I have nothing to say
no way to reach you with words or thoughts
because you are so beyond me in your pain
When I have nothing else
I will give you handfuls of sunshine
And maybe we’ll be ok
Greenhouse
She found her brother in the greenhouse.
“What are you doing out here?”
He lay on his back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling.
“I like it out here.”
She glanced around. “What’s to like?”
“I like plants. You know that.”
“There are no plants.”
This was true. They had all been cleared out several weeks ago.
“No,” he admitted. “But if you look straight up, sometimes you think you can almost see them out of the corner of your eye.”
She just stood there, staring down at him.
“You should try it,” he said.
“No, thanks.”
“You should.”
“You should come inside.”
He didn’t move. “I am inside.”
“Inside the house.”
“Why?”
“People have been asking where you are.”
“So?”
“You should come say hi.”
“I’d rather stay here.”
She stood for a moment, then sighed and unlatched the door. “Fine. Stay here with your imaginary plants.”
The door banged closed.
“They’re not imaginary,” he said to the ceiling. “They’re just not here anymore.”
Important Questions
When I sing to the night sky at the top of my lungs, can the stars hear me?
Are moon craters really the holes of giant lunar gophers?
Do trees consider being made into paper the highest honor?
Do books fall in love with their own stories?
Would my dog recognize me if I time traveled to ten years in the future?
Do clocks ever wish they could stop?
Does my reflection ever get bored of looking at me?
Will I ever know any of the answers?
Vague Thoughts From A Distracted Mind 