Cicada Song
If I want to value the stories of others, I should value my own as well.
If I want to value the stories of others, I should value my own as well.
You’ve never navigated that parking lot, or that odd intersection, or that strange left-lane exit and you are just trying to find the nearest Target.
I have a new kind of energy, I feel good in my clothes, I’ve eaten vegetables and walked barefoot in grass.
Compared to other superheroes out there, there’s not much interesting about a white guy who goes on a rampage when he’s angry.
Even though it was his whole life, he feels like it should have been longer. That he had finally been robbed, and despite all his wishes he couldn’t give to her what she had to him.
Anger belongs to the relationships you care about, to the people you want to love and by whom you wish to be loved in return.
There’s the kind of grey that sucks in light like a black hole, making everything around it matte and dull. But then there’s the kind of grey that emits light and lifts rather than suppresses.
You understand intuitively why people are drawn to burned-out houses. Even grandmothers.
We know our lives here are fleeting, but it’s the sort of knowledge we don’t care to call up that often—as if mortality were a somewhat shameful secret.
The sunset memories of my teens are seared. The sunset memories of my twenties are speckled.