How tender I feel at soft twilight. Daisies and dust and dusk are reminiscent of days when wonderful things happened. Even on happy days, one can feel a little sad. Is this a sign of weakness? Or is it merely reminding me that I have this range, this spectrum of emotional capacities and it is nothing to be ashamed of. My impulses find me in the back alleys of all of your minds, scrawling slogans and love-inspired prose all over the brick walls that keep me out. I try my best to make the most of a closed-in head space and suddenly my cheek is pressed to the carpet in my room; momentary blows of feeling insignificant give me heaviness in these autumn afternoons. Please, clothe me in ugly sweaters and hold me and draw butterflies on my forearms. I don't really feel old at all; maybe this is the youngest I've ever felt.
Bruises have appeared on my legs and on my arms. Black and purple marks of some unremembered battles; maybe my dreams make me thrash about. Maybe it's when I drag myself across the floor, or when I jump into someone's arms, or when we find ways to create shapes with our bodies without hurting anyone. My skeleton is not as fragile as it seems, evidently.
Two phrases, two people to create a story, a situation, a scenario, a conversation. That's all we get. He tells us it shouldn't feel comfortable to say those phrases and I know because they break me. Tears roll down the kind wrinkles in his face; I plead with those two words. Tap into those feelings and remember them for later he tells us. Tears. Laughter. Love. Hate. This place is a catalyst that has catapulted me into a place where I can be transformed. But still, I am so lost.
I have woken into the middle of a journey.
Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall - F. Scott Fitzgerald