What a pleasant day. I have ceased willing my life into perpetuation; stopped forcing myself into a well state of being. You know the way you begin to feel when you’re stuck? like it’s all you can do to repeat another day upon days, binding your thought process to a stiff and controlled existence; of running wild inside yourself until you’re so out of breath that you can feel your organs pulsing, spewing out the tar of the mundane…you cough and sputter in such circumstances. And you tell yourself it’s fine, “this is the way it’s supposed to be. Life is hard” and all that. You know what? Life isn’t hard. I completely and utterly refute such a claim. Life is challenging; at times, difficult. But life? Life is a walk in the park, brother.

But what, then? Life is also brutal. Life is a beast that can be extinguished by the pull of the trigger or the bang of a bomb; of cold machinery brought forth to quell a being or beings into dust. Life is a place where three unarmed men in three different circumstances can be shot dead in cold blood, with theirs rushing from them onto cold pavement. A cold police officer can standly coldly over the dead body he created in a moment of coldness and ugliness in this life. This life? This life is fucked up. The most powerful words in the english language can’t explain away such atrocities, for they are unforgivable, and such are beyond mere casual remarks. The most fucked up thing about it all? is that these things have nothing to do with This Life. This Life is forgiving. This life is just. This Life? this life transcends itself and its real and tangible moments. This Life is waking up next to a beautiful woman. This Life is watching her drive away and already missing her by your side. This Life is warm and full of hope.

So what seperates This Life from that life?

You know the answer already.

I can’t even bring myself to type it, it’s so ridiculous.

Hum drum goodness; a collection of memories being made. Interesting how life becomes itself, unfolding past no seams. A blanket so immense that it covers our infinite grace, guiding us between patchwork to quilt our existence. Maybe we are unending. Maybe our souls flow freely between people and places. And with each day counted, we imagine a brighter sun and it comes. Boy has it come.

Anyway, it’s much – if not all – I can do to bring forth these phrases; these schemes toward no apprehension. I am forever indebted to them. I’m like a tree to its sap: even the mighty have a river flowing through them, discussing amongst itself the portions of warmth we shall be tapped for. One who offers their insides freely must always be kind, always be willing.

Oh, to be like a tree in its unfittered repose!

Oh, to be present in the duvet