Wednesday, March 29, 2017

I can see the winter starting to slowly bend away. On the drive from work to gym the sun felt warm. She is still mostly brief, as if testing the waters. The temperature slowly builds, early mornings aren't as harsh. Some of the trees have bloomed, while others are sparked with that newborn green I love, the color I'll never stop mentioning. Spring always feels magical. I might always need the seasons this way. It is coming, this turn. Not just weather, but in the way my heart dons her drum. More quickly, heavy on the good songs--in the mirror I might spy her shudder in my neck.

Next month is national poetry month and I hope to write a little something every day to honor it. I like doing that. Now that my studies are done for the time being, I'm ready to turn my entire self towards my writing. I will open my google drive and take a deep breath. So much archived, so many pages untouched for months and some for longer, years even. I can't bring myself to delete much, if anything. Every time I approach the notion I think: maybe it's time, or maybe I really am terrible at letting go, or perhaps they were never truly mine to begin with. Loving your art is complicated and wonderful. I don't mind the brutality.

A few weeks ago, facebook notified me that it was a friend's birthday, a comrade who passed away four years ago. We weren't exceptionally close but their presence left an imprint at a time in my life when everything that happened left incredible indents. A few weeks from now it will be the anniversary of another friend's passing. Acknowledging their absences will never not be strange. I try, in my own way, to honor them. Play a song that echoes their memory or revolt in some tiny fashion. I am thankful for knowing their energy. Ashamed of my own ignorance when it comes to the privilege of living and life. Spring signifies rebirth but it also mentions endings. I try to be okay with both.

In a few months I will be 36. Sometimes I read old journals to remember, because I can't recall it all. It's crazy how some things jut out like rocks in rough water, and over time the elements eat them away to smoothness. They become difficult to grip, and some grow smaller or slough off to join the general mass. Pangea post-break up. Some things I'll never write about again and this too is a body of water and rocks, a mass of me that never goes missing no matter what typed out fragments I delete.

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