skonen_blades

It feels to me quite reckless not to worry all the time.

Calmness coming from me sounds the way English sounds in a mouth not raised to speak it. I make the butterflies in my stomach turn back into caterpillars. I beat my issues to death with the corpse of my inner child and then hid the whole mess in my inner basement and put a few locks on the door. Ta-da. No more issues. I’m fine. My smile jumps for my eyes but never quite makes it there, like a small child reaching for candy held in the dangling fist of a cruel uncle. I look at the world the same way Vancouver cops and paramedics look at the world when the Canucks are on a winning streak. When I help people and give them solace, it’s as ironic as a homeless person sleeping underneath newspapers containing articles about the homeless problem. When I speak my truth, it creates the kind of silence that descends at a crowded dinner table when a friend’s mother asks what MILF means. I am a broken stoplight.

But you. If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple. You make me realize what lightning rods are for. You wink at the jester. When we both look at the night sky, your eyes are so big that I feel like you’re hogging all the stars. It’s ridiculous. You were born to live. If this is a show of hands, then you are a palm-palm cheerleader saying yes to everything, leaving tire tracks on the moon.

You make me realize that this is our hour. You take every second second and I’ll take every other minUTE minute. I have found safety in holding patterns and you have found solace in adventure. Two wrongs don’t make a right but four rights just make a circle. You can’t go forward without making mistakes.




tags