elle ne sait pas

sometimes the contents of your soul spill out...
i want to tell you they are beautiful

the past month has brought a heaviness to my friend-world whose volume is unmatched by any other time in my life. i have multiple friends who are enduring significant, big pain. i always ask myself if there is truly more tragedy in the world as time goes on, or if one simply becomes increasingly aware of tragedy as one grows older, making it seem that way.

whatever the case, the storm is raging.
and often there is nothing i can do.

i can't show up with Mean Girls and a bag of Doritos (well, not without hopping on a plane). i can't invite these friends to my house for dinner. i can't take her hand and say, "get in," and then drive far away from the scene of misery without saying another word. that's it: in physical absence, words can ring hollow. i can say "i'm here for you," but i'm not there. still, words are what i have to offer, and i do, because i'd rather try than remain silent and aloof.

so i write. i make the impression on the paper, fill it with ink and prayers, seal the envelope, press down the stamp whose tiny flat power will carry my words across the country. i talk of nothing, i say i am sorry, i sit with my pen above the paper and think and hope for you. i type. i build momentum with the letters that somehow form words and paragraphs and then i click and it's real, it's concrete, it's on the screen. i imagine myself as your soldier, your comrade, the sword in your hand. i listen. i try to have faith on your behalf.

i do what i can do; nothing more, nothing less.
i do what i can do how only i can do it
and { hope pray know } it is enough.

friends, sisters, lights in my heart,
i am here but not there,
fighting for you. always.

la photo a ete
trouvee ici