by P. Braithwaite
I have a hard time being firm in my convictions. I have a hard time being upset enough to act. I have a hard time believing in systems, institutions, opportunities, and ideals….things made of vapor masquerading as solid mass.
I’m here, but so much of me lives elsewhere.
If I had my way, I’d shake lose of all conventions. I’d burn down my obligations and float away on a rain cloud. I’d cover myself with mud and learn the language of the night. I’d find doorways to other places and walk through them…backwards, eyes closed, heart and palms facing the sky.
I have trouble remembering my own name.
This is a rant, a ramble, and a prayer, that you trust your own tether and explore your deepest parts. The insanity is part of the wisdom. The anchor keeps you safe amidst the fog.