Sta.sh
she wishes she has lovely knees, instead she has a lovely
way to see the world. she doesn't believe in umbrellas, only
the stars in the midnight sky and the raindrops running down
her neck, arms, legs, spine.
she knows things that most will find useless: there are more
stars in outer space than there are grains of sand on earth. dogs
have over three hundred facial expressions, mostly made with
their ears. the average person will spend two weeks waiting
for the traffic lights to change in their lifetime.
she wonders: what if stars are just dead pixels in the sky? what
if they are specks with worlds living in them? that would mean
that we are just a speck to someone who thinks they are alone
in the universe.
she does not get along with logic. logic is not wisdom, creativity
is. she wakes up in the middle of the night and scribbles her
thoughts on post it notes: through the forest, down to your bones.
the air sleeps under people's beds. when we get there, we'll
be lost again: send me a postcard if you get that far.
she sits on his bed and orders one beautiful sunrise after
another. she says: let's reinvent what magic is. he says, i
miss your magic when you're not there, she says. where do
yawns go when no one catches them?
she's waiting for a train. she sends postcards to people. she
writes them messages on post it notes and hides them, behind
the cupboard, in a winter jacket pocket, behind the photo in
a frame. when they forget about it, they will find it and it will
remind them of beautiful things.
she loves making discoveries about the world: in the middle of
the night, she ran to the top of the hill to find the town was
shining. at four in the morning, the world is magic because the
sun has not yet had a chance to change anything.
she says: i have a telephone wire for all your thoughts and old
sneakers. she says: on the rooftop is where you find the sky
and most people forget this. she says: less than ten people are
killed by sharks each year.
she writes her numbers out with letters, she dislikes even
numbers. she lost an eyelash, she thinks good things happen
at fifty-two. she replaces fear of the unknown with curiosity.
she says: light up with me under the thunderstorm sky. she
says: this morning i woke up and walked into a river. sometimes
she finds a little row-boat in the middle of the river.
she thinks: it's the footnotes that nobody reads. or maybe it's
only the footnotes that everybody reads. the little things are most
important. like: vanilla trees and toy-boats and stars and the
sunrise and that
morning silence
and
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I want to read it over and over. There is so much meaning in these words. It makes me feel small and warm and content.
Thank you!!
wow brilliant
Again,
This is so beautiful.
And it really reminds me of myself, actually. :]
You say this is like a self-portrait? That makes me happy, because a lot of people have tried to make me feel bad for being different and 'weird' for thinking about things that no one else cares about and acting too young for my age, getting excited about little simple things that no one ever notices. I believe there is something wrong with the 'normal' boring people of this world, instead of the other way around. They'll never know what they're missing, and that seems like the scariest thing to me.