Here, I am the only kind of holy,
and there is no room
for nonbelievers.
—Ashe Vernon—
the blossom time of souls…
soul seeds…
She had this way of always finding the good
and believing in everything despite all that she had seen.
And that is what I loved the most —
the pure magic of her undying hope.
— Becca Lee —
freedom…
crumbs along the path…
‘I don’t believe in magic,’
The young boy said.
The old man smiled,
‘You will, when you see her.’
— Atticus —
reap the whirlwind…
Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is dispatched – love for instance – we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.
— Virginia Woolf —
the anatomy of being…
I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise, and I wish I could sink my hands into your flesh and light lanterns along your spine so you know that there’s nothing but light when I see you.
— Shinji Moon —
its own kind of freedom…
I wrote love notes of various kinds… here and there… hoping I really was seen, feeling against thinking that perhaps finally, my trust was worth giving. I thot: this is what all those story books and fairytales were trying to describe. Swept off my feet, I fell.
Too late I realized I was wrong: when you looked at me, it was not a promise, it was not a meeting of well-mets; it was a warning.
… so many love notes.
Human hearts are fragile, made particularly malleable thanks to the mind-bending heat of misguided belief. Pain births deeper understanding as it sinks into scars you believed to be healed (or, at least, healing). Blame, lies, disrespect, and silence disappears love. We become rank with longing for something that never really was.
This is the struggle to Living.
This is why we pray for blindness.
Loving the Wrong One illuminates if our soul stays open.
I see you even more clearly now but more: I see me.