Notes to self:
there is something about crumpled sheets, getting lost in
sea-tossed moments just before waking. there is something about swimming in the
lullaby of half-rocked consciousness, lying suspended between being and not
being. that kind of quiet is so rare, and so rarely useless.
there is something about pretending the house is on fire—quick what would you take? what would you be glad to leave behind? who
would you love? what would you let burn?
there is something about a kiss in a car stranded on the
side of the highway. suddenly, the traffic doesn’t matter. suddenly there is no
traffic. the world is made of stardust, your heart is full of night, the wind
is dancing in your smile. that kind of kiss stops time, tears the world from
its hinges, and does not look back.
there is something about pretending that you have permission
to say everything you ever thought you wanted to say—quick what would you say? burn off the silence like your courage is
gasoline meeting a lit match. don’t be afraid of smoke: it means change,
metamorphosis.
there is something about learning to run. this is not a time
for stillness. this is not a time to collect a river. this is a moment made of
rapids, a current of colors, a perfect place to get lost. this is a time to
find yourself, to let go, to let it out, to let.
what word do you have for freedom? how do you conjugate
love? is desire hopelessly made of adverbs? you are future tense. your
dog-eared past does not dictate your next paragraph.
the house is on fire. move your feet. retrieve your heart
from the icebox. do not save such things for later. later is this minute,
passing. later is a lie you keep telling that has never worked before. the
house is on fire. you either get lost in the flames, or you run.
JANEisnotplain 02042014
