poetry

water cycle

dancing in the rain on an
empty street
puddles in the grass like
the earth’s tears
weeping for joy
sun a glowing
eye behind the clouds
pockets empty
but for the cool memory
you’ll be taking back and
the sound of the raindrops
kamikaze
on the pavement
sky feeds the earth
earth feeds the sky
clouds feed your soul but
you give nothing back

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a thought

learning to be a flower

that’s a photo of a rose i took this morning. yes, i know it’s obviously a photo of a rose. but. um.

yesterday i saw this rose starting to open, then in half bloom. in a few days it’ll probably be wilted. probably this rosebush doesn’t like where it is but i wouldn’t know.

[i get to notice these things because i do not happen to be in possession of what the average human calls a ‘life.’ but a life with flowers is better than a life without flowers, right?

of course it is, says i. shut up, i.]

but it made me think of a question: what’s the point? i ask this question way too much sometimes. but maybe the flowers have a good answer.

like, what’s the point of a flower, if it’s here today and gone tomorrow? what’s the point of anything so fleeting? what’s the point of anything at all, for that matter – if every bit of life ends up dead? why do anything now, if nothing ever lasts? why even bother when it won’t even matter in the end?

flowers are pretty. flowers smell nice.  they’re here to make us happy and help us to be appreciative, to bring a sense of rightness and beauty. yes, they’re fragile – but maybe that makes them all the more valuable, because it tells the truth. anything good is fragile. life is fragile. which is why you have to hold on to it.

the point is that – and i speak for the flowers, so let’s hope i got the message right – the point is now. not any inevitables that take place at an indeterminable time. not even the actual existence of a point. the point does not depend on you knowing there is a point – there is one and it matters. everything matters and plays its part, no matter how tiny it seems.

the point is not how everything ends. flowers grow up and bloom with absolutely zero care as to whether they’ll wither and die tomorrow, no cares about how they look, no worries of being trampled or being ripped out.

flowers don’t care why. they just are. they shine and spread brightness in the time they’re given, as if knowing now is all they have, all they’ll ever have, so they bloom like they’ll never die. sure, they’ll die soon enough, but now is for living as if they’re the prettiest, brightest flower there ever was.

so why do i feel like i need a reason for anything, as long as i’m content and making the most of now? how much more capable are we of bringing happiness than flowers, how much more light can we give? maybe we’ll die tomorrow. but that’s not stopping us from blooming today – because, really, today is all we’re given and all we’ll ever have.

i think i’d like to remember this every time i see a flower. learn to be a flower and stop wasting time searching for the point. a rosebush has lots of points. but they’re sharp and they hurt so maybe don’t look for them either.

hello

welcome to whatever this is

this isn’t an introduction mostly because i have no idea how to do such a thing. i think i’m just going to pretend no one will ever read this, otherwise i’ll never post anything at all probably.

another reason is, well, i don’t know. whats the point of introductions? why not just let the actual things that show be the introduction? its possible i’m not entirely sure what an introduction is supposed to be. maybe i just don’t like the idea of choosing specific words of you to stick in peoples heads. what if i’m not what i say i am??

anyway. the words will be what they are. and everything’s probably gonna end up being very vague and that’s just me, but i’m trying okay. besides, there needs to be more mystery in the world.

however, i will introduce my cat briefly – because she clearly knows more about what’s going on than i do. she’s sitting here on this blanket as a small black puddle and will bite my hand off if i try to cuddle. yes that is probably a rhyme. which describes her 70% of the time. soft little blob of murder.

[okay there might have been another rhyme there that i did not intend at all. um. okay.]

just some extra honesty: i put off actually writing this for way too long – and i have no idea what i’m doing. not that i ever have much of an idea about anything i’m doing, but shh.

also no, i do not feel like using Grammatically Correct capital letters. i am lowercase; leave me be.

i think i’ll go now.