Imagine standing beside a river, calm and quiet. You only hear the wind softly humming in your ears, the cool of the slowly setting evening permeating into your clothes. Your ears are getting a little cold, but you don't mind. In your hands, imagine that you are holding a small paper boat, perhaps made of a newspaper you found on the side of the road, or an old letter you have. Then you take a deep breath, and put the paper boat onto the river's surface.

That is what I do here. I let paper boats float out into the ocean.



Semi-Locked.



Locked for privacy and for people who want to read blather. I add strangers, mostly. If you want to add me just give a little comment (name, age) and say something about yourself, like what you like about the city you live in (or where you'd rather be), music you like, books you read or poetry, poetry is good. I add people back.

( &c. )

i'm moving out again. life could be so much better in a parallel universe. i feel like i'm stuck in between two cliffs and one false move and i find myself tumbling down only that there is no wonderland at the end, and rockbottom just might crash me to pieces.

my poetry doesn't make sense to me anymore. the story i'm beginning to write is too dark, it's scaring me but i can see it's the truth.

this week i realized that people are utilitarian nowadays. no one really cares unless they need something for you. what happened to the dreamers, the ones who could take care of strangers without batting an eyelash?

i remember the scathing letter asking me once: is it always going to be about home for you?
and the answer is yes, it is. i'm still looking for home, where i can curl up like a cat on a warm cushioned basket, where my form is embraced just as it is: no extra add-ons. like: i would be just right for that person and that person would be just right for me too.

like maybe it doesn't even have to be a person, it can be a place, just as long as the way i love it and how it loves me fits in perfectly.

you know what i mean.