churches burn faster than skyscrapers

but what if you aren't a celebrity in sheep's clothing. what if you're just a normal person. most people aren't exceptionally talented or else talent wouldn't be exceptional - right? what if you're just another median person; not ever startlingly bad nor terrifyingly good.

you put the shopping carts back and you walk your dog and you write poems on the internet. you have grown a plant or two; killed a few others. you did okay, overall, and you've been okay most of your life. not valedictorian, but you were a smart kid. you had some hard knocks, but you got up again. your life is just - average. you probably will never sing onstage at coachella. most of the time you are at peace with that - someone needs to drive the speed limit. life isn't about extraordinary circumstances, it's just about building a life you love and figuring out how to live in it.

but you would like to feel as if you'd found "the answer." everyone else seems to have some kind of talent they are born nesting in - and meanwhile you just exist. is that why you cycle through crafts and hobbies and activities like a roulette wheel? are you waiting for the moment where it turns out - all this time, you've been a visionary. a genius. all this time, you were special. even you: someone who has-never-been.

“According to Simberg, the flowers represent people’s souls, the skeletons are aids to Death, and the Garden of Death is a purgatory of sorts for souls waiting for entrance into heaven. This artwork invites the viewer to consider the afterlife, to take comfort in his or her own passing, and to not fear what happens after the body fails to function.”

“It depicts Simberg’s thoughts on afterlife, which is not run by angels but skeletons who take care of the heavenly garden with a gentle hand, while waiting for more “gardeners” to arrive. It is derived from the medieval belief that the dead sleep in a blooming garden.”

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mortifying ordeal, etc. 🕊

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Ada Limón, from “The Hurting Kind,” in The Hurting Kind

in the dream of that house, you sometimes remember meals and silence and long hallways and your hand cramping over your homework. you sometimes remember the yelling or the limegreen falsehood veneer your parents could construct in the presence of guests. mostly you remember the way time seeped through you, dripped onto everything, how the words it'll get better felt like an arrow through your chest.

you would lay in bed and hope for death with the same fantasy air as romance, picturing a glorious coffin. sometimes you'd picture a dramatic end or a tragic illness that would sweep you away. but mostly you pictured some kind of strange miracle; that you'd go to sleep and simply never have to deal with that again.

when you got out, you had to burn the atmosphere to escape. these days you reside on another planet entirely: one bright and full of lights and color and friends and spice and laughter.

and still sometimes when people say summer, you still remember the back deck. you still remember building a castle. you still remember the birds. when you lay yourself down at night - some part of you still whispers about catacombs, and the dark, and the bones.