the other way

you feel around in the darkness, upon the coldness of small tiles lain in perfect rows along a half-wet floor. you’ve never been there before. it’s the bottom. you’ve heard a lot about this place.

and no amount of tears seem to bring you any closer to understanding what and how or why it might be happening. and the saltiness brings no salvation this time – but it usually helps, it usually helps! you let the tears go anyway and watch as they dry gritty on the floor. the grout and the salt become one and the same. you run your fingertips across the rough. you feel bruises form on bones [indented with the squares of the tiles that cool your flushed cheeks and mind] below your skin pressed into the cold for hours, you assume, in the darkness.

and you laugh at your hopeless, simple imagination that can’t even take your mind off the hard cold salty grouted tiled floor and further from the blackest darkness on the bottom. you have no idea what time it is or how long you’ve been idle but you’ll bet it’s 3am and you’ll hope morning brings a gloomy day and the sun will stay hidden behind a blanket of clouds.

and then finally after those seemingly endless hours
you drag yourself across the cold hard floor
across the tears that dried so long ago in the darkness you now know
and find the blankets of a bed
and steal them instead.
and you wrap yourself in sheets, in your own arms, and stare at the nothing until you see worms of light moving at the backs of your closed eyes and you listen to white noise that appears as a piercing hum from too much silence and you pull those sheets up and over your head and wait anxiously for light to break through curtains that try their best to keep the darkness in
and the happiness out.

[happiness doesn’t seem to belong here right now.]

because maybe you want to feel like this. because maybe ups and downs make you feel alive. because maybe
down is really just
up
upside down.

and you know, it’s always all about perspective.

200 days

i’ve been away
for 200 days. i’ve been gone, traveling, wandering, far from home. and i feel and sense and taste and realise the depth of all the wonderful ways i’ve grown.

i never knew a life like this, i had only ever dreamt it. but now i see how perfect living can be, crazy, spectacular moments made of
beauty,
freedom,
magic.

but it’s all about you, it has always been you
[the places, adventure and people i choose].

it’s always in
magnificent things
a life made from spontaneity and saying yes and all the rest of all the beautiful, meant-to-be mess and chaos and ideas so farfetched, that just seem to work out when we push and wade through all the doubt and the struggle and the want to live the life we do, the life we’ve always wanted to.
in the 200 days that i’ve been away, i’ve found myself, my everything. it’s everyone, it’s every mountain, ocean, city street and stream. my spiritual someplace, my heart’s passionate rhythmic beating,
my yearning for home
for nowhere
for everything in between.

oh these days of travelling, oh my soaring spirit, oh my soul so full and free. i’m living. i’m feeling. it’s searching and growing,
oh i am becoming exactly who i’ve always longed to be.

‘a poem starts with a lump in the throat’ – robert frost

i want to write poetry on big sheets of paper. i want inky pens and gliding prose to rearrange the whiteness of a blank page that stares, so stark, so blindingly, back at me.

i want to write a story in rhyme, or not. 

i want it to mean something when pulled this way or that way
or no way at all. 

my own lines to time will change the world in words that mean nothing alone. 

but i’ll string them together with dreaming and heartbreak,
with honest to goodness forevers and always’. 

i’ll piece them just where i think they belong. 

i’ll change and i’ll utter the words of the world. of people, in remembering, and things, all the same. 

because poems and people are flowing through mazes
of days and time and secret hiding places built in forts as children, built in others when grown.
in their hearts, in their stories, along the threads of our own.

within a life we make from the choices we’re given,
between yeses and nos.
and i’ll write the prose of the poems and people, all just the same. in this world. on that edge. balancing between falling and 

falling.