{ a collection }

blank stares at blank pages
no easy way to say this . . .
{ sara bareilles }

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not even the echo of that memory
reaches me now
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do you ever feel like all you have to offer is fragments? sentences, thoughts, truncated dreams and unfinished love. these are all glass pieces at the bottom of the sea. (can i tell you --- again --- exactly what you mean to me?) but these are just words, with no pages left for action. the story is over. no matter if it isn't done, it's the end. didn't anyone tell you there's a difference?

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to master the art of losing something every day, as bishop instructs, is no easy thing. there is both a reluctance to engage in such an education as well as a defiance that wants nothing more than to achieve it, and beyond. there is a risk of easy detachment, but the benefit of feeling loss less acutely is extremely tempting. and what have i said at all? only that i am afraid, and not much more.

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the moment i let go of it was
the moment i got more than i could handle
the moment i jumped off of it was
the moment i touched down
{ alanis morrissette }

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to step out of these chains with bruised ankles, toward a straighter road
to discard garments too many times mended
to see one's own face through the eyes of love
not to forget, but to be free

i must believe there is possibility