Copy Paste

Rimbaud by the lake and nothing seems real. Sunshine, swimming, your skin turns pink in patches but not the swath of brown across your shoulders, you mourn. My body begins to give up, yells in pain and I know the solution but it's the same that would appease my mind as well, we are simple creatures and carry the answers within. God does not know better. Nor aspirin.

She writes from the homeland to say there must be an alternative. We must be able to grow old without falling in line, without being funneled into babies and 9-5s or pathetically clinging to 20-somethings and their ignorant bliss. She says I'm not looking to be anyone's role model, but I believe she may well come to be mine. He sends pictures from a cab, a last wave before they disappear on the horizon, and you fear there's meaning in that but you're not ready to find out what it may be.

The sun set last night in quiet majesty across an endless valley. We sat on the back porch watching it go, the air more quiet than you've known in ages. I feel like an answer may whisper itself through the breeze. I just have to sit here long enough to let myself hear it.