Lag

Summer rushes ahead, I do not write. Our lives melt away into some pandemic oblivion, when we look back on this time in our lives, what on earth will we say? If only one had a way with words... The thing is we've gotten used to this wildfire, when all I really wanted was fireworks. The thing is you may think you've paid penance enough to earn a miracle, but the Universe doesn't care for your barter system and will not be manipulated into gift giving. You must carry on somehow in simple doldrums. My parents send harvest packages from the dream garden they've been able to rebuild from their youth. I run home along a Broadway suddenly alive again, and it's hard now to remember how deserted it was in April, this world undulates in a strange rhythm. The unfortunate thing about wasting time is that even knowing you've done it won't stop you from doing it again. We should leap into love, into adventure, into the unknown but instead we hedge our bets and slowly decompose in the familiar, even when control is an illusion.

It's hard to indulge in your convictions when they provide no guarantees. It's hard to believe everything will turn out right, when you don't know how far you are from the end of your story. Come find me, please, I'm lost in the woods and I think we'd have a better time running around blindly if at least we did it together.

Stumbling looks more like dancing when you do it with love.