Re/search

Inspiration. That's what they call it.

I spend the morning sifting through innumerable sites, all clad in white, all decked with overexposed, semi-focused pictures of happy people, just randomly nibbling on local-organic treats while reclining in designer chairs with vintage fabrics. This is what you should wish your life looked like, they tell me, and I know I'm supposed to create a site, an image, a life just like that. Somebody should say the same about me.

But I am not inspired. I am not envious, or eager to paint my to-do list in their soft white smiles and just-so unruly hair. I am overwhelmed by the perfection, and I am over it.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Give me dirt, and grime, and an honest face I do not have to cover for. Give me truth, and in it I will find the beauty. I will relax. I will live.