Notecard Nonsense

Thinking about the past, because it's easier.

The future is too big. Undefined. Perplexing.

skewed sense of perception

on one too many levels.

Maybe one day I'll wonder where the time went. 

Until then I'll just sit here and wonder how it can best be spent 

 Too hard on herself.                   

even though she claims to know the truth, 

she still thinks perfection is possible.  

Its not just background noise.

Wishes she had lived in the 1930s 

so that she could have grown up with her great grandmother,

her last words: “That girl has no hips to hold that baby.”

If only her grandmother could see what she's

become these days.

Tries her best every day,

Even when she’s strained.

And they hold her high up for that.

So high, she’s scared to fall.

 

Still remembers the day he told her dandelions are weeds. But to her they're still beautiful little flowers...

 

 

Photo Credit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Dreams are for the undetermined.

Wishing is for fairy tale characters

Hoping is for the weak.

Those who wake up willing to engage

in their experiences and to take risks,

They will achieve the empty dreams

wishes and hopes of others.  

Notecard Nonsense

Because I cannot focus on a night like this, after a particularly demanding week, I've taken out a stack of old note cards and have been shifting through for the past...who knows how many  minutes.

(i

Not wanting to shake up                                    Something to hide?
this particular board

  Always like this, but why?

You there. Me there. Different theres.

Spare me. 

The were on the same page,

just in different books.

 My feet have never been colder. Legs never more like jello.

When you're alone, there's no pretending.

       Only being.    And that in itself is beautiful.

                                          So disillusioned to think that beauty like that could survive.

Elliptical motion. 

Looking out on the gym from across the street.

Cat Stevens. 

Got off that damned machine

and started to breathe again.

BUT 

all these things

these pieces

they don't define her.

she doesn't let them.

Even if

they are truly

parts of who

she is.

She's in control

she writes the

book.

She defines the words,

the elements,

they don't define her.

Retreating to some more writing now. Something longer. Something more sustainable than tidbits of thoughts. Power bar like thoughts get me through the afternoon, but it's about time for a dinner-sized piece, don't you think?