More miles than meaning. And, that must mean something.
Even if it’s just words quivering over asphalt. Chasing empty roads. Or another fragile dream stumbling down another broken Boulevard.
The dirty offspring of (in)decision.
I tried loving myself once. I just never did a very good job of loving myself back. Because it was confusing. A foreign concept never properly explained in domestic fashion.
So I learned other lessons instead.
How to fight. First, with words. Then later, more deadly intentions.
A simple switch of humanity flipped off. Not with the heated gesture vigorously displayed towards an endless parade of shitty Michigan drivers. But the switch inside my head. That dark space too ugly to inhabit the light of day. So I hide it instead underneath wavering smiles. And clever, crafty deflections.
I also learned to run. To endlessly chase after things I was never convinced I was able to catch. Or, deserved to catch. A fact I was reminded of all those years coming up hard. And, unclean.
Those lessons struck back. But, they didn’t have to stick.
Because I don’t have to be the total of my mistakes; sins do not imply final definition. Life is supposed to be joyful chaos; meaning is where you choose to find it.
So let the love happen.
Explore the new snow in a familiar Clinton County meadow. Go buy that over-priced bean-hut slow drip coffee. Touch the face of a bright January Michigan morning. And then laugh when you catch sight of the deer taking a shit at the edge of sprawled suburbia.
Life is just weird that way, pinballing unapologetically between experiences. Overlapping the boundaries; blurring all the lines.
So breathe. Relax. Let it happen.
Because everything is beautiful if we allow ourselves permission to actually fucking see it.
And, I’m tired of being blind.