no name for it
my joy does not come without cost my peace without punishment ever since i was a child dreaming of stars able to recall scents of sweet breezes wafting through leaves i had only seen in my mind basking in the ethereal hungrily taking in the ephemeral then my mothers howling and porcelain chips embedded in our walls how do i return my heart to the blue sky when it is pierced by flecks of red when screams thunder out scraping away any other sounds how do i turn my ear to the songs of birds and wind and rain and the slow growing of moss the deep grumble of the earth our many skitterings across its soil? i am so enraptured in the little things and not so naive as to forget the big things are even little to things beyond them i am obsessed with the noticing of things to notice is to do something with the time i have been given time i must think of it as something that moves me rather than i through it i couldn’t bear to think of all the time i’ve wasted being nothing not as though i have amounted to _______ but that i often do not notice i am something and i won’t let myself because my joy does not come without cost my peace without punishment i am afraid to feel it now (miss it later) so i never let myself breathe not like dogs raising their noses to the wind not like algae blooming in a pond when i notice them, these little things, i remember not how to, but i remember
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beautifully written