with dirty feet and lily white intentions

Month: August 2018

“There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit, coating it with smooth pearl layers in order to cope. This is how we walk and talk and function, day in, day out, immune to others’ pain and loss. If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but for the most part, it does not touch us. We cannot allow it to.” – Gaiman

For months now, I’ve been practicing speeches while pacing outside the door of the artists’ loft I built for you inside my head. There’s no one specific speech. They tend to wander a lot. And it occurs to me, the ridiculousness of this.

I built a loft with a rooftop garden in my head for you so that I could talk with you without bothering you in the real world. And all these years later, I still pace in the hall outside your door, not calling, not writing … not wanting to bother the boy you were or the man you’ve become.

Be well, my friend.


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