When they speak of neatly put constellations and how star dust reminds them of her, I have a different image of her- the lady they speak of, that is me.
Call her your winter symphony. A beautiful wreckage, far from perfection. To look for a fairy tale within her would be to rob you of precious time. Yet the African Gods deemed her a piece creation worthy of breath, one to waltz across the sands of the Kalahari. Within these fragile bones, all the poems I can’t write are piling up at the bottom of my soul. I’m friends with the night-time. More often than not, he (Night) whispers gently, reminding me of the children of my belly. That words, ink and paper long for intimacy with me. That, to neglect my passion is to rob myself of life. That passion should be a priority.
Hard as it may be to admit, sometimes life interrupts. It demands more than what we’d bargained for. To exist, can prove to be a plight on its own. Dialogue with my soul reminded me of softness. Of kindness- that I owe to myself, that you owe to yourself. To dive, without restrictions into the depths of what moves you. To scatter, recollect and thrive. However, in the midst of it all, that I too, am a breathing thing. I should remember, to lay down my bones to rest when my body begs.
So lover, if it all feels and seems like a hot mess, when you’ve forgotten what makes your heart skips a beat or you have no will left in you to burn for what you love.. Grab a cup of coffee. Lay down and listen to Cat Stevens. Play with your dog. Go on a road trip. Eat the things you want and forget the calories. In those light and simple moments, I hope for laughter to become the flame in your belly. That in those precious moments, even if it takes days, months or heck! Even years. You will find joy in your own space.. That you will love harder, paint more. Drink more wine. Laugh a little harder. That to love life, will be your passion again.
May you find summer in your soul
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