once hung in my writing room 1/10/2018
writing letters
they call it a “lost art”
but then all love lost
is found again
when the mood is right.
once hung in my writing room 1/10/2018
writing letters
they call it a “lost art”
but then all love lost
is found again
when the mood is right.
surface
caress the veil
learn to move the night -nearing
lift your legs
stars shift -into
and towards the wind
there
floats the letter written to self
sent, by God alone.
(Day Four White Sands)
Disappointed by a desire to evaporate, pray give me strength to stand against a false self forced on by others.
“Who do you see?” she who exists in a pool of rippling waves, sensing her life over. “I see failure,” the mirror retorts. She dips her finger to find an icy portrait bound by time.
“Still try dear friend,” a small voice quivers. “Find a piece of you to push through the depressed madness, the canned identity.”
Self-doubt relationships play in reality and fantasy. Ego stands disappointed by self-defeat, a desire to evaporate. Is anyone alive?
(6/26/2017)
Found someone, who does the same, writes a (daily) letter to the world. I hope he doesn’t mind.
Do you (he) understand? I mean not to take the sun from your (his) mind but i need a piece to shine on me. Just a sliver through the trees.
just a girl (in the world)
The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.
—David Foster Wallace