I want to pursue pro sketching (and painting, eventually) but I also want to keep writing. There are times I want to do things simultaneously in a day, then I end up doing or finishing almost none of them. I guess insomnia is not real anymore.
Imagine you are an ocean
And I ride on your waves
They say ‘you don’t drown by falling in water;
You drown by staying there.’
But if I sink breathless, tell me
Is it because you are unexpectedly deep,
Or because I’m a bad swimmer?
Tonight I lay listening to raindrops. They fall to the ground without haste- every contact firm, bold and prevalent as the quieting night, and yet as calm.
My head is a little distant from the pillow on which it rests. It draws an illusion instead - a vision. It is lying across one of your shoulder blades, touching your chin. My right hand blindfolds your eyes as you pull an envelope from a heart-shaped box full of such. You tear open the envelope. I remark how awful and awkward it must be to hear my own words being read to me. Reassuringly, you smile.
"Time sped right past me, so I began to ask myself if God forgets things..", you start right off. The warmth of the afternoon is threatened by small claps of thunder. I smile while listening intently. You go on reading as the night is slowly pulled from its bed. I laugh when the sound resonates on your chest. It’s one of those scientific phenomena I like most.
I feel your jaw move against my temple. It’s not much of a bother. It’s not bad at all, but there are a few times that when you stutter and repeat the words I once had struggle writing, I have kept the tears of joy to myself. You hear my sobs and ask why. And somehow it dismays me that I cannot be quiet even at crying. "I don’t know, maybe because you’re really bad at speaking and I am quite disappointed."
"Sure, you’re welcome." I do not dislike it but sometimes I am doomed at the fact that you can read my mind.
You look down on me and paint that smile. I paint one, too. Perhaps I contradict myself and am more convinced that your words are colors to a rainbow, and your mouth is probably the pot of gold.
if you are struggling with the idea of forgiving someone
try to imagine them when they were five years old
when they were a clumsy child
running around in a field of green grass
catching lightning bugs
try to imagine the first time they accidentally killed one
by holding it too tightly in their little palm
imagine them, their face raw with loss
maybe then, you will find yourself softer
maybe then, you will meet them on their knees
and forgive them
—forgive | Caitlyn Siehl (via alonesomes)
My mom always told me that I’d be a bad weather reporter
because I get nervous when I talk
and I can’t read a map to save my life.
But I’ve got clouds in my mouth that touch the ground when
I say your name
and I can’t cry without calling you up to see if you
got any water in your basement.
—Weather Reporter | Caitlyn Siehl (via alonesomes)