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.

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.