The best part of waking up is
falling, when one can, right back to sleep. My favorite part
of drinking tea is forgetting
I ever made it. The worst part of being awake is suddenly missing
every me I used to be.
Quintessence: the Quotidian/Chen Chen
this is a lullaby for my love so he can lift himself up from who he feels he’s supposed to be, and just be
this lullaby has no sound, not even the trickling water from the pond at a park where i wrote him our first poem
this lullaby has no weight —it is light, it’s airless it floats it can fly, it’s a dream with soft colours, a meadow with wild flowers
this lullaby is a spacious room with windows he can look outside in, a mirror he gazes upon: a beautiful soul that he is, barely a thing he’s ever seen, rarely has a minute to take it in
this lullaby is the wind that takes him, a prayer that whispers, an ocean wide open, a calming absence, this green green forrest is his path
to sleep sleep now love…
i’ll meet you tonight on the moon —as squirrels…!
Why is it so hard to quickly sum up all of those things that we have learned while being alive here on Earth? Why can’t I just tell you, “In ten minutes you are going to be hit by a bus, and so in those ten minutes you must quickly itemize what you have learned from being alive.”
Chances are that you would have a blank list. And even if you gave the matter great concentration, you would probably still have a blank list. And yet we know in our hearts that we learn the greatest and most profound things by breathing, by seeing, by feeling, by falling in and out and in and out of love.
It is cooler here… it is quiet. And we are changed souls; we don’t look at things the same way anymore. For there was once a time when we expected the worst. But then the worst happened, did it not? And so we will never be surprised ever again.
by the middle of the week, i am tired of being a person. so on thursday, give me a space to die a little in private… i will retreat into myself, where i have resided obscurely through immeasurable and contrasting lives, all disorganised and stacked on top of each other in the pit of my stomach. sometimes, they spill out of my mouth like sheets of ice and your nagging fingers pulling at my bottom lip, hungry for me to tell you what i think before i know how to say it.
intangible, Madisen Kuhn