when everything around us changed, we felt okay.

in our grey matter, all grey matters. an embarrassment of riches in our heads, we gravitate to black or white instead.

it overwhelms the nervous system, this fearful constant state of comparison.

first, the ground rules get established: memory is historically inaccurate.

no, i don’t have a script for this. but i know the right words exist somewhere, and i just need more time.

patterns form and feel important, it’s the first brush stroke of a self-portrait.

God, it’s easy to forget there’s magic in all of this.

all this information in formation is key to draw a distinction between waking life and our dreams.

all i can say is this, from now on i’ll try to listen to intuition.

like the world makes sense from a window seat, you are beautiful like i've never seen.

there’s magic in our bones, a north star in our soul that remembers our way home.

but repetition, repetition sings ’til finally the melody is sacred, rooted, unchanged.

a feather is a ton of bricks, or maybe i’m too sensitive...

i am short of breath standing next to you.

what if we could risk everything we have, and just let our walls cave in?

so pardon the dust while this all settles in. with a broken heart, transformation begins.

for in our great sorrow, we learn what joy means.

it's mind over matter - matter over mind.