These are the things that break days, guilt and moments, the stuff that makes poets and fills notebooks. We believe in things so drunkenly in the glow of hope. We love things stupidly. Our jaws full of dragonflies, which like humans don’t learn how to fly until right before they die. But this is what I’m good at. Picking apart that level of uncertainty in everything and putting it back together again the way I always wanted it. Curving light and wondering about how lonely it is chasing things you can only get so close to. How is it that I was always the bravest when I was also the most naive? How can I keep smacking into things even when they shotgun through me leaving holes in places no one else can reach? I can’t stop, I won’t stop, I want more. Like that feeling I get in the pit of my stomach staring at the string of buildings in the city emanating fearlessly from the top of the ferris wheel. Because like redwoods I burn from the inside. It’s like being on a carnival ride at midnight, going so fast you can’t catch anything and all you can do is laugh, how young and stupid and beautiful that feels. Always panting, forever distracted. Like those stars that get so hot blooded they burn themselves out, pow, right in the middle of your red giant you’re just a speck, a moonlet of your could-have-been, your ursa-almost-major.
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