life: in progress

it's wednesday my eyes are tired and glazed from the artificial glow of my computer screen  my back aches my head hurts from these longs days in this strange place where I sit in a 6'x6' box with three sides and have a cushion for my wrists  and call it 'success' it's been raining for four days  the good kind of rain that helps you think  and lets you cry  for sometimes, the world is heavy and i feel its weight on my shoulders  for no good reason at all, except perhaps the breaking of my heart for the broken world and forgetting, as i always do, that i cannot carry its weight  another 'mass shooting' feels normal  it's wednesday, after all i'm connected but not affected i'm aware but not a part  today, i am removed, but tomorrow, who knows? coping i drink a glass of water and lay on my bed in the dark until the pain behind my eyes is gone  then i turn on slow jazz for no good reaso

  It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.  I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are.  I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,  for your dream, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.  I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human. It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is t

“Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.” --Edgar Allan Poe