Hearts bleed on to paper to echo memories. Like holograms they dance on the pages of my mind. Yet it seems a purposeful wind wists them away as ghosts again. I hope you’re doing well.
How is it human nature is so quick to want a hard line for things? To identify them as one, then place them into a box neatly, not to be touched, moved, re-colored, hit, or added to? I find myself spending so much time, by default, shoving things into a definition of what I have seen them mean to be… but then, I spend more time hearing this deeper voice that has spun up from tension in the act… it asks the question, why are we trying to say this is the ONLY truth? Can not more than one exist at the same time?
If you could pick just one favorite thing, what would it be?