Setting poetic intention aside, there are days where I wish I was more like a cactus and less like some kind of flower or whatever image I am that draws people I really have no intention of ever talking to or caring about into my world for far longer than I really care to even think about them.
Maybe that is why I’m not afraid of being old and having parts of me not working properly and turning brown, while other aspects are just beginning to grow. Because once I reach the age where I actually look 80 or so, I can say whatever the hell I want and watch the world either accept it, pass it off as nonsense, or listen.
Some might say I voice whatever I want anyway.
On my worst days I curl up in a ball on my bed wondering what it would be like to tell pieces of the world that no matter what you tell me, I will do exactly as I choose. I will sit and do nothing. I will push myself to places that your nightmares are too scared to go. I will let my heart scream bad words and not get married and walk slow kilometers with my thoughts chasing passing cars. I will search for the chaos that my brain is desperately asking me to avoid. I will.
And yet, I always come back to this: I love too hard to always say what I think and my furiously perfectionist heart wants to do things right.
And so my cactus spines will remain largely hidden, because maybe this way, I can make the world a little kinder.
(Featured photo edited with VSCO)
And so I picked flowers. They’re sitting on the counter in a tiny yellow mug. Their white blooms poking over the lip of their vessel.
And so I stopped in an art gallery. I made a mental note to return to this particular space. Art is a form of home for me and so with each new gallery, I feel more and more comfortable knowing that I can find these places wherever I go.
And so I took deep breaths when my back caused me to limp to the bathroom. I know it will heal and with each passing day I learn more about my injury that allows me to let pain go.
And so I felt a melancholy smile when I missed my mom deeply. It was both an eternal and fleeting moment. I walked home craving a conversation with her and thankfully I got one.
And so I engaged a librarian in conversation about graphic novels. My reading list expanded and my backpack weighed more with the promise of curled legs and quiet smiles between well loved pages.
And so I pulled my adventure buddy into a steampunk shop. I thought of friends at home as my wide eyes took in the corsets and handmade hats.
And so I blushed when I didn’t know how to use the bus system properly. Mix ups of the new country kind are inevitable. I’m just glad mine occurred next to someone who knew what they were doing.
And so I ask for a hug from a friend as my tired eyes pull forth small tears. It’s a new season and in no way will I pretend that life stops its hard moments for fascinating new places. I will however keep saying ‘Life is beautiful’ because no matter where I am, I believe that will be true.
(Featured photo is edited.)
I wonder if the little bumblebee I watched today grows tired of being dropped upside down every time he lands on the flowers which are so much more delicate than he.
I pondered this for a moment and decided that wasn’t so. Maybe he doesn’t completely realize he is the reason it drops. He loves himself as he lazily loops from one bloom to the next.
Perhaps he even sees the sudden whoosh backward as a kiss. Perhaps he knows that his touch is too rich for the little flower to understand completely.
And so each flower gives of herself to the traveling bee knowing that he was good for her and all those around her, but not quite understanding him or what his purpose is.
I watched bumblebee buzz sweetly, allowing his furry weight to overwhelm the flowers and confident that he is the reason that they will continue on.