oh, you mournful creature, you’re too old for broad city and too young in the tooth for the real estate doldrums of shrill, too cynical for the latest and greatest success story, but at the perfect time and place to assess:
the reality of it stands,
never hold them at arm’s length, never underestimate anyone,
anyone’s love, anyone’s cruelty, anyone’s capacity to do and be.
today– small gifts; i awoke without anxiety, I resolved to finish, at least a verse, at least once manually, at least a dish and a half,
today i dove deep into the ether of subreddits and forums and awoke with a phrase from
better days? no, different days, when i was a child diving fearlessly into the bright blue,
“En boca cerrada, no entra mosca,” the beauty of listening and breathing and allowing movement to frenzy underneath your skin without daring to leap out of it.
in the dream, in the vision, i was crying but i was howling, and i was singing
hooked on a feeling,
exactly as i had sang it before, reckless abandon, whether on the way home to a loved one or all alone in the desert,
i tapped back into myself, i tapped back into myself, i rewrote the narrative,
i went back to the source.
-C.
camionneuse 