What do you know? I do not reach, not really. I get lost in the weeds of things. Yet somewhere a voice says, ‘come on let’s go’. I do not wish to be what is seen, the confident she has it together sort. For truly, I am always floating and wondering. Always doubting and floundering.
It is not in full conviction, but in the insecurity that dreams be. To do the uncomfortable to trust the unlikely to know that even when all is wrong, it somehow finds its own right.
I dwell often in the misery that sadness pulls lashes to bed. Yet it is in waking that avoids breaking. It is in chiseling away stone to unveil form. It is not the captain that does not waiver, but the songstress that billows tall. Love on the tidal’s arm.