terça-feira, 23 de outubro de 2018


Something is pulling me North, maybe the bright north star or the wind currents or the excitement of what I could become, of what I could live. 
But the fear pulls back and grounds my feet on Southwest. Life has been plucking some flowers from my fields with the same restlessness I used to bear around my grandma's ferns, ripping them bald in seconds. Now I understand her anger, of seeing something you've put care into being severed by such naive but ruthless hands. An act so gratuitous, lacking purpose, just like any other thing that happens around us (even if every person you come across wants you to believe otherwise. you see, if you stop believing, there will be nothing left for the rest of us).

I fear that if I go I will not be here to give and receive and share all that we have to share. That I will miss my parents' typical silliness of those who are getting old or that my cousins' legs will grow a mile while I blink my eye or that my grandmas will no longer need a partner for hydrogymnastics or someone to share their losses. Living a life driven by fear leaves me feeling queasy and uneasy. I fear. I fear. I fear.

I fear.
But I also wonder.

How silly to stop believing in purpose but keep believing in stars. It's like taking a walk on the edge of the mountaintop with slippery slippery ice all around and under your boots.
But you have to keep moving or your feet will freeze, my dear.

"I am as constant as the northern star/Of whose true-fixed and resting quality/There is no fellow in the firmament./The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks,/They are all fire and every one doth shine,/But there’s but one in all doth hold his place;/So in the world"

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