In the city, I sleep until I can’t and it’s still never enough.
But when I’m in nature my ass is up at the ass-crack of dawn,
chasing sacred sounds and tracking magic animals by following the spells they cast.
I will not sleep until I’ve learned the patterns in the stars and begged the fire to tell me how it’s hypnotized me so, gaze trapped in one another’s spirit.
There is work to be done in paradise, but I do it all knowing that it will make me stronger, and so I lift with my soul!
I am in the company of death in every shadow, so I walk slowly and lightly and I am entirely with myself, knowing that in a moment, I might not be.
The air I breathe is medicine; the water I drink is tincture, both of a recipe perfected by something that loves me perfectly.
I see every color imaginable, in every shade; and the sunset reinvents its palette every day.
I listen to the world’s newest musicians sing the ancient songs they sing to their mother; prayers for protection, asking for their nest to stand strong, grateful that their song continues to be sung, that it may be heard forever.
May it be.
About chrooth
No this isn't some sort of midlife crisis thing. I'm just adapting. Like anyone else on here, or who does this, I believe I am writer. Unlike most others, I believe I am a writer because I have always written. Long story short, I was a really weird kid and sometimes it just felt like the only place I could turn for some solace and empathy was an empty page. I've always been a melodramatic writer and I've been really happy for a long time so I haven't felt the need to write but when I do... I have to. I basically live on the road, so my journal is hardly ever within reach, and when it is I convince myself that I'm too busy to make any time for it. So here I am, embracing the future, having acquired the journal that will follow me almost anywhere. I'm having one of those, "WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THIS BEFORE!?" moments, and GOD after so long I can't tell you how good it feels to just let my mind spill through the tips of my fingers again. I suppose this would be an appropriate time to qualify both my ability and my intentions. I am not a good writer. I am told I have a strong tendency towards run-ons, I over punctuate, and I curse like a sailor. I can't spell for crap and especially while typing, I have a tendency to just leave words out. As I mentioned earlier this "blog" is meant as a replacement for my long treasured journal, which tends to imply a need for privacy. However, if you were to ever read my journal, you would eventually come across an entry musing over the purpose of a journal, wondering why they are written and kept in secret. I have no secrets. I had far too many secrets for far too long and I assure you, I have no more energy for them. Additionally, I can not properly conjure any feeling of being heard by manufacturing an imaginary personality that lives in a book and understands my words. So I write, and have always written, to you.
Thanks for reading it!
Chrooth 