The sailors

Surely the lines that raised these sails were the same that had risen the great sails of the Star of India as it navigated Desolation Sound. Surely none had breathed this air, so deliciously salty, but those who could call themselves adventurers by career.
Roofs and walls and other weapons of oppression forgotten, we simply breathed and let the air intoxicate us with stories of the wild, the wind, and what lived under the sea.

Kundera's fairytale

I am a haze of fairytale ideals and romantic myths.
Daydreams on horseback woven into harpists' songs
and the deep, sad hum of a fairytale princess in a muddied dress, all alone at a foreign ball, dancing Kundera's Last Waltz to the slow, sad tune of Once Upon a Dream.

Because amidst all the "you'll go far"s and "you're going to save the world"s I wonder how that can be true.


And no matter how many times you say "I know its true", I wonder how many times you thought that before this moment, only to realize you didn't.

Found this hiding in the "drafts" section

But why? Why not love all the converging generations and the odd pieces of the people that don't fit in? Aren't those the best parts? What is wonderful about the parts of a person that have learned to be normal? The pieces that used to be strange and spectacular, but now settle into extraordinarily unsettling normalcy, emptying, empty. That mocking familiarity so willing to ridicule unknowingly. Setting up a defense. And each defense tears at the others and before long, the world is in shreds. Freedom is an arsonist; I want no part in the war games.

Grasping

Trying to grasp that feeling before some sound or song or someone else's feeling drives it out. This "I breathed the crisp autumn air and felt the cold sun on my back" euphoria. Some wide eyed sense that things are okay and if the air can smell like that and quiet can sound that nice, that things must be on a good track. A track headed somewhere where the air always smells that way, and the crisp feel of it on skin can wake you up and snap you out of your bad dreams. Where each passing sound holds worlds. We must be headed somewhere bright.

Dust

I wonder if there really is anything, and if it matters in the end, if you try, fail, succeed, win, lose, if you do it alone or joined.. who keeps track? What substantiates each moment, like dollars with no gold behind them? Only passing from hand to hand, trying to be worth something. Trying to buy meaning, buy time, buy anything to feel like something more than the dust of the earth pulled together to form limbs and joints that move through the world until they can rejoin the dust that is still formless, and be nothing more or less for it. No more distinguishable from the rest of the dust than before it gave us form. Didn't Hamlet turmoil over the very same Idea? And has anyone gotten any further on the subject since? Didn't Shakespeare too, return to the dust? For all his great work, his sweat and work, didn't he end up just the same as every common beggar of his time? I don't want to be dust.

converging realities

I found this lingering on my computer. I'd forgotten that I had written it.

"The cold sun outside the window is all that seems real in these moments, when the room is so dark and gray and the light that filters in seems to have volumes of words frozen inside it, as if it can almost whisper them, but it hasn’t enough life yet, and maybe, if you are faithful, and watch for long enough, it will divulge its secrets. So in stagnance I sit, and wait for the sun’s luminous knowledge to pour into me, because even the strongest stagnance couldn’t survive that miracle. Speak, Sun.
Downstairs, lives are moving, each in their different worlds. Accepting that moving through life is a form of convergence of hundreds of realities, is key here. Often I have sat and watched people live as if there was ever one reality. Such petty games. Such angry hearts. Step in between the lines, where all that is truth dances together."