If I broke the bubbles in the bath with a sledgehammer , I thought myself a murderer. When I break my own heart, I feel like a loser in the gutters of East Toronto. What is the difference between smashing up other peoples lives instead of your own? What makes guilt fight conscience?
What makes you live so poorly so intentionally unpotentially? You know there is more out there for you then sucking bubbles down your throat trying to drown your sorrows,
I aim for sugar dirt. Crusted in your burnt bacon. I’ll bend so far I won’t feel my big toe, stuck in salsa that you dripped down the stove just to see it travel from top to bottom like our slow touches that give us freedom to love our flavoured beauty.
Like cat or baby sitting on our lap, and how often we have to pee or grab the kettle but we share that moment with our heart and our head and we sit still. We don’t get up because to disturb the beauty would be oh so unsatisfying.
Sometimes dramatic thoughts and not thinking about the realistically or literally or common sensically, way, is fun. It’d endearing to my own self. I believe in it . For the fun. For the youthfulness. And standing on that once upon a time wizard feel, is a fantastic. I feel the confidence that comes with being proud. that’s easy to feel when you have the audience praise popping around the stage of life you’re making. And when you don’t , when you find that the spark’s been sucked up, or you cant light wet ash, you create the fire,you become the rest of the part you stumbled with. In growing older, you question whether you are being the so young so too much and you wonder about the crowd u want to attract. And once you realize the place you want to exist in for yourself, you can love that you can know the power in the relationship you make with who you are.