Beautiful People

Passion is but a beautiful mess. It spills and tumbles like a love undone. And thus this life, this life is for the lovers to assemble, to siphon and frame, to shape and construct into something inspired. Build it high like a tower, like a needle to the sky, passion creates skylines and stadiums. Lay it out like a hometown, like a ranch on the plain, passion fashions families and pixie sticks. Find the people who make it happen, who erect your contemplations and cause you to boil in the readiest of ways. Let them go, keep them close, if you can, do both. They’re the ones who feed your passion; they’re the ones who make the mess.

They are the beautiful.

Nothing's changed. Everyone's different.

I’m back where I was a year and a half ago. The spot where I wrote of my socks being wet which inspired the name of a token blog. The spot where I slept, albeit jaded in a futon’s flawed design, whenever I made it home. The spot where I said ‘yes’ to everything that would become my tortured self today. The spot where I woke to hope, stay still for stability and will listen to Spirit. The spot where I question if in all this time anything’s really changed. The spot so déjà vu that anything in between might easily be a dream. I would hate for that to be true. What’s the prize for the runaway who never left home?

So much has happened outside this sandwiched bed, these ketchup walls. So much since a year ago and six months more than that. People, minus haircuts and silly bandz, look the same. Places that matter still do. Things that were broken in some way still are, things that were perfect still portray they’re no less. Then I come in, to all this still inconsistency, and try to find my place amongst the stones they’ve laid to step. I’m fourteen years old with a secret told and a weight long gone. I wonder, do I fit in?

I am different. They are too. But we have not changed.
Love luck lost is still my epic theme.