But curiosity can damn sure kill you.
Learning to be still when sleep won't come. The crickets, the humidity, the night. Summer's ending, and I joke that I haven't made my plans for last summer yet. The bills keep rolling in. I guess that gives me a place to put it, something to struggle against, purpose. You know yourself there was just too much anxiety, too much dread, and it only got worse the higher you flew. But I can't tell you how badly I wanted to keep it, even knowing what I know.
Somewhere, remembering, you drift off - 4:30 or 5:00 am. She finds her way in, undoes your defenses, and you wake for work an hour later in a puddle of your own blood with a hole in you at center mass. You never gets used to that sinking-in-your-chest feeling.
It takes time, you say.
Now the West is burning, as are your immediate surroundings, and you are looking for some way out of the smoke and flames. You wanted to feel alive again, didn't you? Well, your prayer was heard and answered. Now you burn.
She calls. Talks about you in the past tense. Maybe this weekend, she says later in the conversation. Hope and Despair rise to standing at the same time. They don't even bother to grapple, just stand wearily in front of each other looking at the floor.
A friend told you recently she thought the world was crumbling. So busy fretting about yours, you'd forgotten. You looked around. Of course it was, and there was solace in that.
Nine Eastern Blue Birds appeared in a sub-zero February blizzard right outside your bedroom slider. They sang until you looked out. Neither of you had ever seen this kind of bird before, and they seemed impossible in conditions such as these. You felt her delight, watched her marvel, and knew then that you would never recover.
Nine Blue Birds. Angels of your death.
Learning to be still when sleep won't come. The crickets, the humidity, the night. Summer's ending, and I joke that I haven't made my plans for last summer yet. The bills keep rolling in. I guess that gives me a place to put it, something to struggle against, purpose. You know yourself there was just too much anxiety, too much dread, and it only got worse the higher you flew. But I can't tell you how badly I wanted to keep it, even knowing what I know.
Somewhere, remembering, you drift off - 4:30 or 5:00 am. She finds her way in, undoes your defenses, and you wake for work an hour later in a puddle of your own blood with a hole in you at center mass. You never gets used to that sinking-in-your-chest feeling.
It takes time, you say.
Now the West is burning, as are your immediate surroundings, and you are looking for some way out of the smoke and flames. You wanted to feel alive again, didn't you? Well, your prayer was heard and answered. Now you burn.
She calls. Talks about you in the past tense. Maybe this weekend, she says later in the conversation. Hope and Despair rise to standing at the same time. They don't even bother to grapple, just stand wearily in front of each other looking at the floor.
A friend told you recently she thought the world was crumbling. So busy fretting about yours, you'd forgotten. You looked around. Of course it was, and there was solace in that.
Nine Eastern Blue Birds appeared in a sub-zero February blizzard right outside your bedroom slider. They sang until you looked out. Neither of you had ever seen this kind of bird before, and they seemed impossible in conditions such as these. You felt her delight, watched her marvel, and knew then that you would never recover.
Nine Blue Birds. Angels of your death.
Love the image of hope and despair. Who knew? Gorgeous.
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