I can't quite tell you

I can't quite tell you what it is I'm seeing.

Because I know I'm not seeing it all.

I know that if I could just breathe deep enough, I could leave myself.

Because somewhere, above the shuffling of my feet along the roads, and with the insulation of miles of atmosphere between the effervescent dream of a me that can truly see and the girl who is yogi-breathing her way through the day, is the vantage point from which I could make sense of things. If I could find perspective, I just know I could see the great amalgam of what is coming. I want to see that things are going to get better, even if it means that things are going to get worse first.

But I am just a girl. A girl who was made a great fool. Just a girl who accidentally rants out loud, and sometimes forgets about breakfast, and lunch, and sometimes dinner. I am, at the moment, a girl mesmerized by the rerun of her great fall.

I am Nixon, watching Watergate unfold, hoarding tapes, imagining my downfall, until it comes to me, again and again. I am Achilles, wondering why the God's did not just thrust me into the River Styx and let me try my own floundering luck at escaping my mortality, rather than leave me blinded to my weakness under the roaring sun of assumed fortitude.

But these things are not a life. And all wallowings must end. I am just a girl, and so I must look for light in the world through the pinprick left me.


So, no. I don't know what it is I'm seeing right now, because I am too close, and my view is too narrow. But I'm trying to look. Because even if it's terribly cliche; if I am willing to push forward without seeing everything, then a crack is enough to give me an inkling. To give me a dream.

(i took this photo last winter, having no idea what it would mean to me tonight.

i find great joy seeing that sometimes, we already know the answers)