skonen_blades: (dark)
My heart is not as black as crude oil.
My soul is not a broken mirror reflecting a thousand angles of a crime scene.
I take pride in my accomplishments.
I always look on the bright side.
My ego is not a sponge vampiring up all your compliments to feed my justifications.
I feel attractive and smart.
I feel like we're all headed in the right direction.
My sense of self is not a diseased puppy going blind and hoping for death.
I feel good most days.
Happiness is not alien to me.
My mind is not an opportunistic, power-hungry, self-defeating, abuse whisperer.
I do not bully myself.
I don't kick my own crutches out of my reach.
I hate burritos.

April Fool's.

skonen_blades: (dark)
April 30/30


She is a rich, deep, pile of emotion. Her inner world feels like a post-apocalyptic Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

She knows that Dark Days are always ahead. And all she keeps thinking is die later. Die later. Die later.

Relax, he says. It’s only a finger of speech. Even a broken record is right twice a day.

If she is a product of her environment then call her the broken windows in a greenhouse. She stinks of fertility and she can’t run away from it.

She feels like a speed bump in everyone else’s life.

She is a Dragon with a girl tattoo.

Her mood isn’t grey. It’s light black. Which is an improvement.

skonen_blades: (Default)
When you look at me, it’s a swooping dare of instinct that communicates deadly intent along the wire from predator to prey. The quivering acquiescence of a humble foodstuff in the face of pure physical superiority. I would feel the same if I looked into the jaws of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I would not run. I would merely be food. There would be no other option. It would be my place in the universe, the food chain, and our relationship.

For every shopping list that becomes a hit man, there are too many that go the other direction, that wane to safety in the shadows and are content to be part of the river of history, not the crags that tear it open. If one builds towers to heaven, one must be prepared to meet God.

Peel the smiles off our knowing corpses because we’ll be keeping those secrets. All the grease in Tanzania won’t make these wheels squeak. If you want a sharp-angled rescue then simply come home. My scissored arms await your pliant body. We can take turns when it comes to the killing.

skonen_blades: (whysure)
Hey bookshelf! How’s the bullet wound in your green shirt doing? Is the red ink flowing? Are you in debt? Do you fear the reaper? Does your wooden exoskeleton feel exposed to traitor arrows? Do bullets made from the same stuff at printing presses scare you? You are a hardcopy going softcover. Your spine is thinning. Heavy books covering heavy subjects are becoming fewer and fewer. You might even say that it’s become the twilight of an age when books about vampires are no longer sun-damaged and have lost their teeth to love.

As your subjects become lighter, you need less support. Oak bookshelves give way to plywood. Huge bookshelves are replaced by smaller ones. Periodicals disappear into phone lines and magazines grow in number to satisfy the shortened appetite-span of the average reader. We used to be locusts. Now we are full. Libraries are turning into uninhabited airships, becoming all homeless Bruce Wayne secret identity that no one even cares to know anymore. Cruise ships up to their necks in cat pictures.

They’ll join the billboard atlases and vintage spacesuits in the attention span vortex of the internet. They’d be better off becoming a vagina with a Mohawk. Crater photography and florist x-rays have no place in a society that no longer cares how things work. Even mechanics now dream of playing mechanics in movies. Famous is as famous does has become the reality television motto of every living soul not struggling for water in the third world.

If this is the year of the dragon, then maybe fire will descend from the clouds. Perhaps electricity will stop swallowing all the words and give us back some candlelight. Closets full of worlds will bloom again, cats will dream of whales, and black-eyed barbershop quartets will appear in park gazebos. Panda bears will roam condominium halls and ideas, precious ideas, will swarm like hornets dripping lust from the fertile minds of our young men and women. Each tickled fish will gives an artist year of pleasure.

Rubbing two ideas together can create a storm. Let the light bulb of your ideas give you enough illumination to write when it’s darkest. Because the sun is going down.

skonen_blades: (bounder)
If I must die, then bury me at middle C. I’ll pull trains down from the sky and for God I’ll play my best card: my child.

I’ll be a hula-hooping fire hydrant instead of chocolate and flowers for dying women.

“Let’s have a steering wheel bonfire!” I’ll exclaim every morning. “Take the direction you thought you were headed in and throw it in the flames.”

I know my name is More of the Same. I know that black history month and valentine’s day are both in the shortest month of the year.

As any survivor will tell you, to keep from being hunted you can hide amongst the dead. Use those around you as camouflage as a hiding place. It’s hard not to drink the Kool Aid when you’re drowning in it.

I see them giving every halo a trademark, making every soul a subsidiary, giving the illusion of transparency, all the while remembering that a famous author once said “We cannot react authentically if we are concealing the truth.”

An overarching paradigm of tissue paper true love and iron currency. Butterflies and car tires.

Hope blooms brightest in the best fertilizer.

skonen_blades: (blurg)
Some people’s entire lives are suicide notes and their deaths make us suddenly literate, make us take off our Coke-bottle glasses and look at it with 20/20 hindsight.

Not all chests contain treasure.

Every relationship is a living organism. At one end, it’s all lips and mouth, talking and kissing, eating and sucking, smiling and drooling. At the other end, it’s all shit and one asshole.

My love used to be a crack whore. Now it’s found God and is a permanently smiling rollergirl. Dry and strong and shockingly weathered. A zombie happy to be alive.

These days I feel as out of place and as unused as a zamboni machine in Trinidad.

These square inches are black-hole Christmas cards from future selves warning me not to change the timeline. They want to exist and I have the power to change them into something better.

Twenty-six purses lift my skin away and peek. A slip of the young. It’s a street-fight defense out of place in the bedroom. The pages of my dictionary are recorded on the crushed tiger tongues of promised credit. This handle of corn-coffee trapeze wishes longingly for the simple, simple ground of footstep after footstep. We are restrictions placed on barely contained explosives and I’m hungry for the train-track rhythm of your jungle teeth. I want a stork fight.

It’s taking under most nights. There’s a wonder fluffing pillows and two terrors battling under the plant leaves near the crack of the door that’s been left open. How many millionaires?

We’re learning.

skonen_blades: (dark)
On the right scale, every life is as short as a baseball swing.

It’s an essential truth up there with kittens in jars are fascinating to children and basketballs can become bullets. It’s a piggybank graffiti musical, a burnt flag of surrender hanging damp and limp near sunset.

Underlined, triple-stamped and delivered with an army of crows. The only way you can tag your butcher is by coming back from the dead. Gravedirt footprints lead from the scene of the crime.

Red means go here, and the apocalypse is available without a prescription. Hockey orphans, rock star widows, and black-eyed sailboats compete for the attention of smiling, bloody gods. The musical score is the unheard, satisfied sigh of a burning moth. The laugh track runs backwards, the audience sucking air back into their lungs. It’s the opposite of creation.

Pool tables gallop into car accidents near secret basements that decide the way that an entire human life will swerve. A boomerang parabola arcing back from birth to death. I made shadow puppets and now I need to wash the light off of my hands. It’s a stain of hope that won’t come out.

Useless wings that look more like skinless umbrellas poke out, fluttering in the crackhouse. When it crashes, entire shipyards breathe out. These are rain gymnasts needing expensive fuel to make bad decisions. Sharp searchlights stab out of Siamese-twin lighthouse skulls, warning of the rocks near the shore. They are more like rowboats than people.

Congratulate yourself. Keep playing pretend. Let’s see what happens when wheels become people. This sumo-wrestler moonwalk means as much as a post-it note.

Swing, batter. Swing.

skonen_blades: (dark)
Here he comes, oiling up out of the shadows. Window-pane grids of dying sunlight throw darkness in the corners, giving him fuel until the strength of night allows him to fully awaken.

A tarry, licorice backbone with a hostile sharpness. Long fingers on the end of thin, dangling arms, muscles carved from black maple. He is the scythe that walks. The black eyes of a deer glitter wetly in the panther-velvet skin of his face. Even his teeth are black.

He has the long reach of extendable hope from the other side. Back to the ceiling, palms on the walls. He’s an indoor gargoyle hustling the corners into shapes. He breathes in the obsidian air and hugs the evening close.

The ebony flecks of his fingernails glint flatly as the moon rises. Cords of jet muscle wrap the profane engine of his soul. There’s a yawn from the corner that mimics a terrifying snarl from a darker place, a pre-human place.

He is older. He is the anti-god. The other. To some he is the devil. To some he is the boogeyman. To some, he is simply The Bad Guy. He has been given many names and accepted none.

Long, fat tendrils of dark smoke curl around his form now as the sun, defeated, slinks beneath the hills and skyline. He follows the meridian of darkness in its circle around the globe. He is made of night-time secrets that are taken to the grave.

He stretches, dripping down to the floor and standing up straight like a dancer. He parts the air like a shark’s fin parts the ocean. His thoughts broadcast into weak and strong minds alike.

He walks forward into the night, dodging any light. He is never seen. He fans the urges that damn us.

skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
My days are numbered but they’re all out of order. I’m shuffled.

I can see it in their eyes. My friends carry me like pall bearers. My whole world is an emergency room. I’m a bridge rusting away to scars. I feel like an old folks home filled with birthdays no one remembers.

There are those for whom the deeper valleys of feeling will remain uninhabited. Sex will be athletic and fun for them, most poetry worth a raised eyebrow. They’ll do fine. A collection of evolutionary dead ends, throwbacks, and ceiling fans that make up most of the populace.

I clutch advice and courage close to my chest and feel the broken-motorboat generator that teaches my soul to sing. Some faces are timeless.

I saw her small-town mouth of flowers and I felt like I was a contestant on “so you think you can speak?” In the same way that skydiving is a controlled fall, her voice was a controlled scream. I loved our little place, the island of when we talked.

She spoke to parts of me that had never been addressed.

I feel the air for Braille. I tap out morse-code nightmares in the dark. There are souls swirling around without a compass pushing through the streets.

skonen_blades: (dark)
She grew up in an abandoned orphanage filled with broken mirrors and black cats. All she knew was defense. She reminded me that even blind people are scared of the dark. She was a black wave rising up from the depths of the ocean in the form of a woman. She swelled to maturity in a way that made men want her.

She used to tie tin cans to the wings of angels and the tails of dogs and laugh at their panicked attempts to get away from the jangling noise.

She set fire to dolls. She bent canes. She snuggled up to cruelty.

I was jealous of her in the same way that stop signs are jealous of green lights, the same way that molars are jealous of fangs.

She excited me like she excited every man. She kicked the darkness awake in all of us. Black, dusty wolves shook themselves to standing in our hearts. Our inner hyenas padded back and forth with whispered, wheezy murder. Our eyes caught the moonlight.

She chose me. I’m still convinced that it was a random, impulsive decision. I longed to be interesting to her but I was only an outlet for her brutality.

She was a deity gathering minions.

When she moved away without telling any of us, we shook ourselves awake for the second time. Our clouded minds experienced a sunrise of rational thought, broken hearts, furrowed brows, and surly binges. We felt betrayed but still somehow privileged.

She moved to Tuscon. We knew that because of the news reports that came in later. We weren’t surprised at the body count or the circumstances surrounding the violence. Her grainy, snarling mug shot stared out at us from big-screen televisions in store windows.

Even with the death that still clung to us like a nursing child, we counted ourselves lucky to have known her.

Such was her power.

skonen_blades: (dark)
Everyone on the planet is connected. Inner thoughts are protected but we’ve found a way to record smells, sights, hearing, heart rates, and the sense of touch.

Every person is a camera. Everyone is accessible. We are all live.

Anyone can access anyone. We’ve turned into one organism.

In doing this, we’ve found that most people like to watch.

There are those in the human race that jump out of planes, enter marathons, fight sharks, fuck with abandon, bare-knuckle brawl, hunt with a knife, and laugh for hours. At last count, there are seventeen thousand, four hundred and sixty-two of them, and that number is shrinking.

On a planet of seven and half billion, that’s not a lot.

Everyone tunes into them. The populace lives vicariously through these people that are truly alive. Time not spent at work is spent in a chair, sipping whatever, staring at the wall, and searching for an exciting person to log into.

They are famous. They live life to such an extreme that their life spans are usually shorter thanks to misadventure. Clipping a cliff edge during a dive, a failed thruster on re-entry, heart failure going for round thirteen, all sorts of things.

The problem is that no one is taking the place of the dead ones. It’s a world of watchers that know that tuning into a person is just as good as being there. They’re wrong, of course, but they don’t know that because they’ve never done anything exciting in their lives.

The exciting people are steadily whittling down their own numbers. In time, they will be gone and all that the population of Earth will have is reruns.

And that suits the population of Earth just fine.

skonen_blades: (dark)
Nanny Saline.

Her knobbled fingers had calcified into claws. She smoked like some sort of engine. The four-wheeled trawler with the IV bag went with her everywhere indoors. One of her eyes had been replaced with glass but she rarely wore it, choosing instead to tell us kids that our future was in the meat-coloured eye socket and to stare deep.

She was darkly merry. As happy as crows on a battlefield or worms in a graveyard. Her yellowed dentures clattered like castanets as she cackled down the hallways of her huge mansion.

A battalion of nurses tried to stay out of her way.

She had a striated tendon in her neck that kept her looking stiffly to the right until the doctors threaded metal through it and tightened it back in the other direction.

That was the first of her tendons to go. Over the next ten years, one by one, sixteen other tendons on her body gave way and had to be wired. She was all borged up. It was a good thing she flew in her private jet. They never would have let her on a conventional plane with that much metal in her body.

She married into money young and had about a dozen ungrateful kids. She was a real dish back then.

She had a black soul. It was like she had the opposite of humour, only laughing at the bad stuff.

She was held together with a need to outlive everyone she knew.

And now here we are, standing at the side of her grave plot, watching her being lowered into the ground.

I’m surprised, looking at the headstone, to find out that her given name was Reindeer.

skonen_blades: (jabbadoubt)
I want to remove the blindfold from love and tear off its wings so it can’t fly away. I want love’s pink pepto-bismol blood coursing down its own back to make it slippery in a pig-wrestle grip before I hogtie it and throw it in the hope chest under my bed with the other monsters. This will mean that I win. Love is in the dust blown off of the little black book.

Love’s promise is a verbal contract with an imaginary creature. Would you accept a third-party, out-of-province, post-dated cheque written by a unicorn?

Love is just target practice for angels.

Love needs to be thrown screaming under the wheels of this world and to be subjected to the deafening noises and vibrant colours until it becomes numb to the input. I want love’s music to die on the lips of the choir. Its pink fairy-dreams are like a dusting of fiberglass in my lungs.

Love bends close and whispers in my ear “The glass if half full.”

I respond, “Yeah. Of slow-acting poison.”

Love glows like the last untended coal in the cooling black stove of my chest.

If I am a tree, love is termites. If no man is an island, love makes me feel like I am.

Love creates loneliness so that it can feed.

It’s a spider with eight big, red, shiny eyes living in the center of our souls.

Love is a DJ with rose-coloured glasses making us all dance. I’ve had too much to drink and I’m aching for last call but it stills pulls my strings and makes me jerk to the rhythm.

None of us are impervious. Some of us wish that we were.

skonen_blades: (thatsmell)
It’s life.
Numbers fly through the flyswatter.
We make stuff up as our bodies decay and look at that, we die.
Boy, there’s a lot of fun to be had.

I’m quite drunk but the road is straight.
My car is falling apart but it was cheap.
The prairies dare me to cross them.
I feel free on flat land. I get home safe.

A friend said to me tonight “It’s like a cross between date rape, acting and slavery.”
I knew exactly what he meant.

I understand heroism.

skonen_blades: (dark)
Click on the image for a wonderful string of mesmerizing and disturbing pictures.

skonen_blades: (angryyes)
He was a crowclown. Small dark eyes glittered like a bird’s deep in the hollows of his face. Six more and he would have looked like a spider. Big black circles surrounded his eyes. The end of his nose was a ravaged black that looked like frostbitten flesh. The black around his mouth was perfectly edged but still looked like a stain. It wasn’t makeup. It looked tattooed. It looked dyed. A mirrored clown make-up rorshach birthmark on his face. He had little triangles above and below his eyes.

Black matted hair sloped down around his ears like Victorian royalty. His ruffled collars looked ludicrous above his black and white thick-striped oversized long-sleeved shirt. He was wearing starched black overalls that were dirty from the climb from his grave. His oversized shoes sparkled with an obsidian finish. Sharp fingernails of polished jet poked out from the fingertips of his ragged black gloves.

He was a circus raven. He was a zombie mime. He was a shaman from the crow tribe of juggling Iriquois. He was a spirit of revenge. He was a Hell-oquin.

Back from the deadpan.

He perched up in the ceiling ropes and surveyed the floor of the big top’s center ring. The monochrome pattern of his clothes kept him hidden in the play of light amongst the rope’s shadows like a tiger’s stripes in tall grass. If one did see him, one could be forgiven for thinking that it looked he was at the center of a web.

Every circus has one. They are unsettling but necessary.

They infest the rooftops of clowntown like pigeons.

skonen_blades: (dark)
What was left of my compassion for the human race was blown out like a candle. This was years before I became The Butcher.

There was a zebra in my bedroom last night. The woman riding it reached a hand down to me before she disappeared.

There's a clock in the kitchen with a chime of screaming children.

The checkered linoleum on the floor is peeling and damp. The oven doesn't shut off. I'm sitting in the middle of the floor on a red plastic chair. My eyes are white and I'm sweating.

Store your bodies in the sauna, not the basement.

The cities on the prairies look like ships.

Every building block needs a warning symbol.

I was dragged to my parent's chimney by a blind black stork with broken wings.

There is only so much hope in a person to be spent over a lifetime.

My soul churns inside of me, waiting to be born.

These whales surface right beside the whalers with mute wet eyes that beg for death. The follow the boats for miles until the wish is granted.

Out here there are no mountains. The sky is a dome that I find oppressive. It's like I'm living in a huge souvenir.

The clock has stopped. I'm alone with time and all I have is ten dollars and a taser.

My heart's transparent. I can see right through it.

skonen_blades: (dark)
Please, please, PLEASE click on the words Burning Safari and watch this film. I laughed a lot. It's beautiful. It's from the french Gobelins animation school.

Burning Safari

Pee Wee’s playhouse is going to be aired again on the cartoon network. I watched Proof today starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Jake Gyllenhaal. Not the best movie ever. A lot of angsty arguments. I also watched Welcome to the Dollhouse finally. That was a dark little piece of work but it’s also refreshingly honest. Being a teenager is so intense. Intensely boring, intensely depressing, intensely violent, and all this crazy horniness coursing through it as well. It’s alive in a way that I really would never want to go through again. Maybe that’s only because these days I have the capability to be exhausted. I sure didn’t back then. I’ve been going a little crazy today. I was invited to go out to the beach and have a lovely picnic with Jhayne and Sam and some other friends but I just couldn’t get up the gumption to leave the house. I stayed in my house coat until four and had a nap. Don’t get me wrong. I practiced my piano, did some driving school research, did lots of laundry and got a fair chunk of my taxes sorted out as well as watching those two films. It wasn’t a lazy day but I do really feel like I missed out on experiencing a lovely outdoor Sunday. These are the Sundays where I don’t miss Scotland at all. This is Vancouver at its best. Just leaving the apartment seemed like it was going to be such a challenge, though. I feel like I’m going crazy when I feel like that.
Is it true of the human condition, do you think, to be always on the horns of a dilemma? Well, maybe not a dilemma, but standing at a crossroads? I have all these options. I’m paralyzed by them. I’ve always struggled but now I’m in a good place where I have a lot of time and money to do the things I want to do. I feel quite constrained as a result.
Plus I’m newly fatherless and the posters and advertisements for father’s day are starting to suffocate me.
But this is getting too dark. I was attempting to make myself happier but its not working. I’ll get the rest of my taxes down and try maybe calling someone or taking a walk. Hey I do feel better after all. It’s getting dark out.

skonen_blades: (dark)
It’s raining in the alley and she’s running. The broken heel on her left pump is making her gait all lopsided and she’s getting more and more off balance with each panicked long-legged step. The cobblestones are leaping up and kicking the bottom of her shoes unevenly and her shoes don’t have any grip. They’re the shoes she wears in the restaurant. Her feet skitter and tangle and she’s down hard, slamming into the wet night-time stone with a shallow splash. She hurts her wrist. Her purse spills. Her wet hair splays down to kiss the ground like a whip and slaps the concrete. She’s sobbing. There’s a keening coming from her that she can’t control. She knows the end is near but like most people, she begs anyway. Under her breath, to herself, a litany of pleases. She’s never been this scared. She is a hunted animal. The human in her is fading. Her language is reduced to repeated syllables. She can feel herself becoming Prey.
She can see a night time street not ten feet away. A person walks past the opening in front of the theater lights from across the street. She can’t scream. She knows she’ll feel something grab her ankle and pull her backwards at any moment. She can only beg the night behind her for mercy.
It’s fresh out.
There’s a scrape on the pavement.
With strength she didn’t know she had she flips over onto her back and looks back into the gloom of the dead end.
There’s a horsebeat footstep clump and a snort. There’s also a jangle of chains. Two points of light like reflections off of cutlery dance in unison in the darkness. The dead end of the alley might as well be miles underground. There’s a blackness there that is total. Like an ashcloud. Like the end of a movie’s credits. Like the bottom of a well. This is a darkness a blind person could sense.
Tendrils of it creep forward, amplifying the shadows and then making them bleed together, pushing obscenely into this reality.
She made a deal. She has not held up her part of the deal.
More time. All that she needs is a little more time.
She’s not going to get it.
This is an Agent sent to this plane to collect the debt in case of forfeit. She turns white and freezes in horror. Slowly, horribly slowly, a tendril of the darkness caresses her ankle, getting a good grip. It tenses.
Her scream is still a whisper as she’s dragged into the dark. The sounds of her half hearted struggles mix in with the rain around her.
All that’s left in the alley is a soggy purse that will make some lucky soul thirty six dollars richer.
The blackness retreats, coalesces, and closes with a small pop.
The streetlight in the alley stutters and comes back on.

skonen_blades: (dead)
Hey there. I passed my learner's test this morning. I know have almost a driver's license. Sweet.

Check these out. Click on the first painting and just keep hitting next. Dark but cute.

He Breaks up With Her in a Store.

He broke up with me just after he bought me a pair of shoes. We were in the mall. I thought we were heading to a new level, shopping together and everything, when he fixed me with The Look. We’d been going out for almost a year. He was a quiet guy. I’d heard that he wasn’t so quiet when he was with other people. I knew he’d eventually start relaxing around me so I wasn’t worried. I knew we’d work it out. I mean, a year’s a long time, right? You don’t just throw that away. So there we were, in the mall, and I was trying on shoes. I was looking at a really expensive pair of red leather heels that my father would kill me for wearing. Hooker shoes, he’d call them. Jake walked over to me then, after talking to the girl at the cash register. I’d been holding onto the shoes and staring at them for a while.
“Do you like those shoes?” he asked.
“Oh yeah. But jeez. $120? Forget it.” I sighed.
“They’re yours.” He said. “I just bought them for you.”
“Oh my god! Really?” I squealed. I threw my arms around him.
He didn’t hug me back. I didn’t really care. He never hugged me back. That was just the way he was.
“Shelagh, listen,” he began. He stopped. He looked at me. He ran a hand through his hair. He sighed. He put his hands on my shoulders. I looked up at him.
“Those shoes are kind of a going away present.” he said awkwardly.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Nowhere. Nowhere Shelagh. I’m going nowhere.” he replied.
Now I know I’m not too bright but it still took a few seconds of the way he was looking at me and what he was saying for me to get it. It took the wind out of me. I got a little light headed. I couldn’t speak. I had to sit down.
“Give me a call if you want to talk more about this, okay? I understand if you need to take a little time.” he said. He did actually look a little panicked, like I might cry or something. To tell the truth, I felt nothing.
I felt absolutely nothing.
He gave me a squeeze and a kiss on the top of my head and left me there in the store. I swear he walked so fast it was almost a jog. He must have wanted to do this for a while. The girl who worked there came out of the back and put the box with the shoes in it down on the leather bench beside me. She was smirking just the tiniest bit.
I walked out of the store, out of the mall, and out into the sun. My hooker boots clutched close to my chest. I could just imagine my dad’s laughter. I’d forgotten my sunglasses in the store. I’d left my underwear at home because Jake liked it when I didn’t wear underwear. I kept walking. My skirt rode up a little but I didn’t pull it down. I wish my mom was still around. She wouldn’t find it funny. I walked home along the busy highway turnpike near to my house. Halfway home, I put on the shoes.

I remember once at a party out in the valley before I met Jake I was talking to Jane about life. We were drunk on wine coolers and we were in a hammock and looking up at the night sky. You can really see the stars when you’re out in the valley. I was talking to her about how I wish there was a way you could just escape from this whole bullshit small town life. I was talking about how much I wished it could get easier and that I knew there must be a place where it’s easier. There must be a way to get there.
“There is,” said Jane, in that world-weary way she had, “it’s called running”

I was standing beside the busy highway near the exit.
Halfway home, I put on the shoes.
It’s called running.

A picture I took on the way to work this morning.



skonen_blades: (Default)

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