The Mind is a Terrible Thing…

I have this thing with writing. It’s a love/hate thing. It’s a good/bad thing. It’s that thing where you sometimes would rather stick the pen in your eye then stick it to paper. It’s also that thing that puts the blood back in your body after you’ve already lost so much. It flows through the tubes and through your veins. It’s the restarting of your heart.

I have this thing with writing. It’s those dreams that come to you in the dead of night, jerking you awake, only to slip silently away. It’s the moment in the early morning where the words are all there is. Where they’re all you want them to be.

In my mind, every small popcorn kernel is deafening. Popping up when I want them and popping up when I don’t. Exploding when the lights are off and when the shower is running.

When I’m not writing I’m reminded of the things I want to forget and the things I don’t want to hear. And when I am writing, I’m reminded that the mind is a terrible thing…to waste.



Seasonal Love

Love. Love is like the wind. Can’t see it but you can feel it. Love is like the sea. Crashing forward and ebbing away. Or is it? It seems like the seasons. Seasons twisting and weaving into each other. Each becoming indistinguishable from the other. Love is like spring time. It’s light and airy and carefree. It’s bright and shiny and new. Sprouting from the earth and branching out towards anything it can get it hands on. Love is like summer time. It’s hot and sweaty and beats down on us. It’s long days and short nights. It’s time in between and time and a half. It’s clammy palms and shining brows. Love is the like the autumn. It’s brisk and breezy and fresh. It’s red and orange and yellow and brown. It’s the calm before the storm. Love is like the winter. It’s chilly and unpredictable. It’s harsh and risky. Each day unlike the one before. It’s constantly changing and upending itself.

Love is all there is.