I feel nauseous with joy. Now that I got what I want in the palm of my desert it’s value has tumbled.
I see the moonlight different.
When I get up in the middle of the night, like three times times last night because I couldn’t sleep, there were father figures all over the grass .
And the silhouette of my sleeping man and furry shadow.
So why do we write about stone bridges?
Maybe becaue we’re not interested in how to process happiness.
We know how to do joy.
We drink glass.
We frolic, we scream, we kiss.
We crave lessons in conflict
in how to unbutton.
It’s all so stone bridges, she said. I’m just not into that.
Oh really? Are you into just apple blossoms?
Call me late at night after a evening asphalt.
You’ll be clawing for stories of bridges.
Do you watch Ted talks of people describing their profound balloons?
How amazing their life is, so you can recoil at yours that is not?
And what do you read? How to resolve wolves and free your spirit?
Maybe. But not all the time.
Like us. Some bridges. And the rest.
Be boring if you need to.
Talk about pink and don’t go there. I dare you. See what goes jungle.