You know… inspiration comes from many places. Like wells filled with memories, die hard loves, loss that takes years to heal. Fighting to breath, to be what you need to be. Today.
I spend so much time sifting through reality. Separating fact from fiction, flesh from bone, memory from want, desire from need. Sigh.
I just can’t anymore.
Sometimes we preserve our organs for days that never come. Like sub zero preservation. Like hope could make the world fold, or have room to breath next to the truth of its own corpse.
There is always a new chapter.
There is always a truth far from home you never even met yet.
I made promises.
Sometimes we make promises we cant keep. Sometimes our finger tips won’t hold fast the irony of let-go hands Let down from hour to hour, minute to panting breaths to thread bare bodies…
It’s ironic you know.
It keeps you alive… just long enough to believe the lie.