Sometimes, the sun leaves out compromise and summertime boards a train sooner than you'd want it to. It's like having a whole bag of dill pickle chips waiting at home for you and when you get there, somebody else ate them. I want to always be aware of how lucky it is to be here, to be living on this planet, to be me, but sometimes, all I can do is let images run through my mind like moving pictures on a little screen. What do I see? A garden, a beanstalk towering over me, barefooted on the sand, waves rolling in and out, smiling dogs, an endless summer being drank like a sweet juice that leaves no cavity. It is in these images I have come to know who I am and what I dream for, but it's not always easy to watch summer leave you while you're living in your head.
On December 13th, in the wintertime, I was born. I have spent every waking hour since then traveling between what is and what ifs. I want to slow down — to follow my own advice, dying is a guarantee, live for today, don't waste your wishes, be yourself, and fight for your solitude. Even I, the woman who pens the ends of poems and stories with messages about saying c'est la vie to the fear and the doubt can cry over small things. Even I can let my coop be ruled by somebody who hurt my feelings or the way the world looks when I'm watching the news. A gust of wind can roll into town and suddenly, my day is teeter tottering between sad and downright angry.
I want to land among the stars.
I want to always have guts, hope and moving pictures.
I want to know how to love in every season — even the ones where flowers don't grow.
I am still learning how