in between all of it, your stupid human heart. no matter where you stash it, you always find that same ache, this desire for some feeling that is beautiful, an unwinnable and unkillable goal. and where can music fit in a life, right now? people are dying. fascism is the rule of order. the cdc is a farce, the epa is dead in the water, america is a fucking shithole.
but the shower you took today was nice. the birds are coming back. someone has started a little conga line of tiny snowmen near your local bus stop; each one a little sillier than the last. without any evidence, you strongly believe they're left there by adults - something about the shape and size of the abdomen and thorax.
people are dying, still. you donate. you protest. another name in the files and still no action taken, the dow is up. a toddler is taken to a concentration camp and is "lost". your paycheck barely covers rent, groceries are obscene, your boss warns you of potential layoffs.
but your neighbor helped you shovel snow, made you a hot cocoa. you and your friends randomly decide to have a taco dinner right now because why not; you're all stone cold sober and shaking ass at 10PM on a worknight. you meet a girl and she shows you her music, her hands shaking. when you have the honor of making her laugh hard enough her blue eyes water; something about the liquification of joy spills into your palm and coats your veins in marigolds.
laundry has to be done. tax season is somehow here (but, like, fuck 'em). every day something happens that makes your breath suck out of your body in a single sharp smack, and you still need to meal plan. AI is stealing water to make advertisements for items you don't even want. you still have to stop to get gas. someone you really respected is shown to have secretly been a predator. you still need to remember to pick up pet food.
and, too; the little poet of your heart. untended to but somehow still alive in the dark: the little poet notices the new leaf on your plant, wants you to dance in the grocery aisle. the little poet covets a new book by your favorite author, wants you to make cookies, scoops the perfect round top of your peanut butter. the little poet puts down little hands over the forever-wound of you; and the little poet says: it is worth it, being here and having this. even if for just a little longer.
dededos
prguitarman
romaincrisis
gummygunk
discoholicmusic
stormborns
dailybridgerton
