That there’s a home in me deeper than flesh, stronger than bone, calmer than trouble and more infinite than all these fading words.
That I cried in the shower this morning to wash my sins away with salt. Soap and forgiveness only reach so far.
That I don’t understand why people trade their life for money, money for things, and things for half the life they started with. I want a freedom reimbursement for my soul.
That there are times when I don’t feel like I belong in this madhouse of not-now and tamed desire, of neon gods, fake smiles and comfort cages. My soul is a wild thing. My heart — a lonely bird. That I would rather lose the plastic lies I’ve grown to love, and through the cracks of me, become the truth I’ll never lose, or hide.
That I am not a grownup or a serious adult, the only real thing in me is the small child that survived.
That I don’t know how to embrace the darkness, and I need help to memorize the light, to be reminded daily that this too shall pass and something greater will become of us.
That I love you, that I love you, that I love you…
That I have lost my faith in distant gods and falling stars, unless they fit in human chests and make a heaven out of Now.
That I regret all the chances not taken, the beauty not shown, the passion not chased, the heart not invested, the dreams not believed in, enough. That I’m still trying to forgive myself for all the calls my fear didn’t let me answer.
That I don’t have much time in Life but I still have much Life in me, and I’m so scared of disappearing. So I make Art to help me deal with mystery. And mystery to help me bow in awe. And awe to help me fathom the beautiful unknown.
That I’m not strong or tall or solid or contained, I’m just a one-winged bird that’s learned to love the rain.
That there’s a longing in my bones that can melt glaciers. That there’s a quiet strength in all the weakness I’ve accepted. That there is courage in the vulnerable broken pieces I’ve rushed to sweep under the rug.
That I am tired of excuses, sick of fear, blue with maybes, worn out by ifs and dizzy from somedays. I am today, I won’t be put to sleep.
That I believe in elves and signs and ghosts and sci-fi otherworlds, and I get letters from the future and love notes from the dead, and every dream is real, and all our thoughts are things, and everything in us, through us, exists.
That I don’t care about your name, your face or size, your bank account or status, your resume, your bloody past and your retirement plan. The only question worth a heart is “How Much Life?” . . .