I will paint you with colors
you weren’t able to see yourself in.
For every chance you will never take,
I will leap with your bravery.
The center of your world
is unknown to me –
But I will navigate through the labyrinth
you built around your heart,
for as long as it takes.
I want to want what I have in my hands. Or the possibility – which is where I have always gotten lost. This is the sharp left turn that leads me to nowhere, for all things are at their best before they happen into existence.
How beautiful our expectations look in the dark. How shameful we feel when they emerge in the light of actuality. I prefer to remain in an in-between world, one of shadows, a grayness. A passage where possibility lives in limbo, the sliver of space in the middle of what is and what could have been. I’ll choose not to walk through, lingering as the patterns in my eyes dance in the doorway.
there’s just about nothing
about nothing, just about
or the uncompromising pull
of needing this to be anything
but nothing, everything but
I’ll take a walk instead
backwards, not to trip on
your shoelaces. They’re always
I’ll be moving too quickly away
to help you fasten loose ends.
The waves don’t stay
you don’t come with the current
when it calls
collision is all you know
for tonight, be
The way the breeze makes the willow dance fills me with a kind of peace I wish I could bottle up for a time I know I’ll need it – when the chaos consumes me and I can’t escape the panic. I don’t know how to hold onto these moments. Perhaps they are not meant to be captured or controlled; the beauty lingering no matter how evanescent.
Somewhere along my journey I misplaced my movement. It left me for a little while, went dormant because I stopped feeding it. I forgot how to care for it, that it needed to be nurtured. That was my fault. Nevertheless it came back to me, waking slowly the more that I took the time to sit down with it and ask what it desired. Are you ready to come out now? Do you have what it is you once thrived on? Can you forgive me for allowing you to drift so far away?
I am discovering that despite how much I have changed, the things that once moved me remain recognizable. There’s an uncomfortable adjustment to getting acquainted with yourself. I am reminded of the depth in which I love and feel affected by temporary happiness. I had forgotten how easily I get consumed by the euphoria, mania, fast climb to the top of paradise. I had forgotten this because each time I am met with the fall, spiraling to the bottom of a high, I go looking for it in other things, other people. In myself – in my movement. And so comes the necessity to seek balance – the tightrope widens to make room for exploration. Somewhere new, something unknown, someone magnificent.
In a time when I became settled; unaffected and unintended – my movement slept. I became even. No highs, no lows, no need to find balance or walk a fine line of uncertainty. Without the drive to venture into unchartered lands or weigh out emotions, my world flattened. One note. One tone. Even.
As my movement surfaces, I become aware of the things I know for certain; I want to always climb up, walk across, dive to the bottom and look for doors to new places. To be moved, to be fleeting, to be like a willow dancing in the breeze.
We are many. Yet we are not together. And it feels like this vastly expanding gap is growing between those of us being crushed by the constant, ever-consuming sense of existing completely separate from anyone. Especially the ones who love us and who we love back. Craving more, chasing less. Growing older, letting the presence of the present define our circumstances. To dream beyond the moment is to wish for something we cannot grasp in our palms, tiny grains of powder soft sand. Holding on tight to the here and the now and the this. So fearful, so apprehensive, so desperately distant from the will be, maybe, someday.
We, the lonely. We are here.
We shift back and forth but never forward. We sway from the branch of uncertainty, unable to untether the rope we have been tied up with for so long. So we anchor our thoughts and our feelings, our seemingly unattainable hopes, to the tangible idea of stability. The here, the now, the this. We are a reminder of our own existence. Soon to be defining moments of our histories but never parts of anyone else’s. This, is the lonely. Here, are the lonely. Now, the lonely swing; to and from what is known and what cannot be –