The little white world that plays in my hair, twirls up my chair, twists down my heart, spins in my sentience. I am a bundle of things that are cells that are webs that are wild that are connected that are connecting. I am forgetting and I am trying to screw my head on straight. I am trying to get my life to pan out with the ease and unfolding of someone who’s brain isn’t in a thousand places at once. Apparently I am only fighting the natural tendencies of my story. I must learn how. I must get better. I must hone skill. I must work towards. I must own my shit. I must craft clarity and sharpness of mind. Fortitude of character. A reservoir of responsibility. I must cultivate that which I am not. I must work on my weaknesses. Fill in the holes with sand and mortor and become the kind of person that can do the things I seem unable to do right now. I must cultivate sharpness of mind and fortitude of character. I must own my shit. I must work towards betterment.

And love.

Good morning moonbeam, apple drop, windsome folly. Good morning to all the myths and all the mists on the hillside.

Certainly the sound of today is something worth hearing. Certainly my feet still walk, still talk, still dance like hands on fire. So that’s a start at least. At least that’s a start.

Everyone deserves to feel the story of their life wrapping around them. Everyone deserves at least that. But it seems most don’t feel anything at all.