This is the first time in awhile that I’m excited about what comes next.
Too much change, too many things that feel out of my control, overwhelm me.
I have a tendency to prostrate myself into the lap of the familiar in order to regain balance.
I end up complacent.
Staying down too long, slowly suffocating on carpet fibers and forgetting the singular rhythm and scent of my own spirit, my wild amethyst, pipe dreams.
The ironic thing is, monumental change seems to be the only way to shake my color loose.
Waves whetting stone beach whistles.
I had a lucid, pre-REM dream that woke my sleeping self from its self-defeating lullaby. And I feel it on my skin and I feel it in my gut. Whispering poetry like Robin Williams to the caves inside me that can, that must, hold more, stoking the fire behind my curious eyes.
It’s so easy to accept the life that seems to have fallen in my lap and to feel a whole cultures’ expectations of what my life is supposed to look like, how I’m supposed to feel.
But fuck that.
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