These Things I'll Never Say

need to move
need to improv

need to lose myself doing what we love

need to find that feeling that floats free and sinks heavy at once, inexplicably palpable but, now, elusive.

tonight i miss it more than ever.

“Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don’t blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being “in love”, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.” ―Louis de Bernières

every end is simultaneously a genesis of all else we have yet to uncover, just as something wonderful might be a prelude to something greater.

find the things that mean the most to you.

hold on tight.

we could easily feel engulfed in a hundred biting reasons to be unhappy or cynical. with where or who or what we are, with what the world means to us. but there may also be a multitude of thousands of alternative reasons to be content, grateful, blissful - at peace. sometimes we get so tangled in the pursuit of what we conceptualize as happiness that we forget to be, happy. the littlest things can mean so much put together. positivity of spirit (not blind optimism) is cumulative.

it’s like we have this tendency to romanticize happiness into some sort of ever elusive destination we can only dock at when we reach a certain threshold, and because our mirth is not consistently sustained, we eventually semi-consciously resign to general disillusionment and cynicism. i don’t know whether this is right or not, but i feel that “happiness” is not something we arrive and remain at. it comes in snippets/moments that flicker on and off and in all forms, but our proclivity to only feel it selectively shortchanges us more than we realize. perspective is not an artificial imposition of a sketchy interpretation that merely sits well with us; it is a refocus on perhaps, healthier, more significant ideas. realism is not synonymous with incredulity, and indifference is not a natural posture one can maintain indefinitely. at least i would like to believe that everyone has a few things they care about. 

so i guess meaning doesn’t find its way to us - we ascribe it to what we choose to. i for one think we can aspire and grow without putting ourselves down just because we aren’t there yet. wherever there may be.

knowing what you don’t want can be just as important as knowing what you do.

so many reasons to be happy
so thankful for all that’s in my life

it feels like

dance breathes new life into you.

actualizes a realm where your vault of emotions, no matter how amorphous or indefinite at that moment,

finds externalization and in that,

the heaviness is extricated, your bones are unfettered, you feel daffodils blooming at your finger tips,

you remember what it’s like to really breathe. you remember the air.

you feel and acknowledge every piece of your being.

you move yourself. not in the way you move through minutes or hours or days, move through places all too familiar, move through the pedestrian.

you transcend yourself - you are a work of art.

words fall short, barely scraping the surface of this which i cannot put a name worthy enough to.

i want to feel something new.

i’ll try my very best to take every bad thing that comes my way as a chance to grow and become better. nothing is ever for nothing, and i still believe in being happy.

i trusted you most.

is protecting yourself from your thoughts escapism or pragmatism. or survival.

few things are not seen in relation to everything else.

some days which come and go, i wish my circuit of consciousness or semi-consciousness were less a clutter of knotted and interlaced coils, of varying lengths and girths and textures, emitting sporadic thrums that i blanket with some degree of safe eschewal,

than a clean, compartmentalized drawer of pencils, pins and plastic toys.