One day at a time

All the days that you wake up, you have one job, and that's to get better ever single day.

Circling the String

 A lesson, value, or a common assurance; life seems to be strung out on a string some times.  I’ll leave you be, so you may extrapolate about what the outcomes can happen when tying string.

Make a string to long or to short you can run into a number of probabilities of problems, sometimes none at all but no one is perfect.

The emotional body that comes with life, some things can be avoided, adjusted, also the unexpected can happen. Learning to live with pain.  We hold onto things and also let them go, pain can be one of them but also learning that pain some times needs to be let in and we must learn to make room for it.

Edges

Edges in the cold,

Just before the fold in the ear you have a creased contour that rises at the ten position and sets at the three as if you where following the hands on a clock.

The place where the fingernail ends and the fingerprint begins; mocks a curve that never meets a physical demand during the day.  Same can be found when the foot is flat against a surface.  The cold is always the first to get too these edges of the body first. The pain settles in but stays fresh as if you received a fresh paper cut or rather the feeling of a repetitive irritation of something is beneath the skin nagging like a fresh scab.

As I lay

The paint is imperfect on the sealing.  One blanket covers the crumbled crumbs that lay with hairs of cats and people in the seams of the pull out coach.  The bed is made for two.  Tails of stories are told with the grips of fresh brewed coffee keeping them and us awake.  The staying awake was much needed a different character of that person came fully pure, in that moment in time.  Now a story was being explained as a mist, a distilled moment in time, that would need forty-five minutes for the story to flourish but it would be remarked as a echo, “…this is me stoned.”  The night carries on with cracks and cackles of two talking through the night, it’s almost as if there playing telephone but they are laying next to one another. 

The sun rises with the date of a new year.  The paint is imperfect; it might be the posture of me lying crooked with a pillow beneath half my neck and shoulder. Then again paint can’t always be perfect.  The colors that come through the blinds are of a spectrum of whites, warm-yellows, and blues that mimic sky blue landscape.  Outside changing supplely because of the early morning tide. The blinds make soft hard lines across the space as if they were mountains and I lay low like valley.  What follows through the blinds besides blocked out space are tonal colors of sienna yellow, warm ambers, woody browns, yellows that should piecing but are soothing.  The colors that I saw would be worth a picture but in that moment I found it all in her hair and skin.  Her hair changes to the light that it is given at, so do her eyes but in this moment it was a form that I didn’t realize I could take all for myself and carrie with me now.