i am not the same person at 8am and 8pm


Scabbed elbows and knobby knees. Strawberries and clotted cream and yellow evening haze in the summertime. People stayed outside until the evening stretched thin. People stood at the edge of their lawns, hands in their pockets, socializing. More than a howdy. More than a hello. The neighborhood watched our back, kept us safe. Now we stay indoors, connect over synapses that don’t require anything more than taps of our fingers. I don’t understand how the world goes from smooth to tangled in a minute. I don’t understand relational shifts, familiar structures eroding under the passage of time. These moments are pebbles accumulating second by second. Into years. Into a weight that tips the scale until the balance is all wrong. What is right? It’s a mess. We climbed trees without thinking of falling. We sat on the curbs and watched bugs. It was simple. Understandable. Able to fit in our small hands. People said hello. In the summertime, we biked along dirt paths to drink out of cold, frosted glass mugs. Now if we want to get coffee, we call. We plan. Two weeks from today? Great. She’ll probably cancel anyways. My friends weep over broken families. My friends worry about what to eat. My friends shake their heads, cross their arms, and stand next to me without words. We’re young and already wrung dry. We’re young and already carrying unwieldy worlds in our arms. We play the game of shrinking, of becoming small, of being okay, of feeling everything and nothing at all, because hell, if that isn’t what the world taught us.

If I close my eyes, I am sitting on the edge of the sandbox, eating frozen blueberries out of my calloused palms. It’s good. The woods around me are green and quiet, the sand damp from rain, and an ant scuttles through the veins in the fraying wood. My fingers are blue. My lips are blue and I think how beautiful I look with lipstick. I am eight, maybe nine. I don’t know what a calorie is. I don’t know a house being anything less than a home. I don’t know that life doesn’t always fall into place for the good guys, that it’s less good guys and bad guys and more people all bumping into each other, trying to figure this breathing, beating thing out. A tangle of arms and legs and smooth skin. Feathery hair. I have a cowlick and a widow’s peak, round cheeks and freckles splattered like paint across my nose. I am eating blueberries out of a white bag and they are cold and sweet on my tongue.

Surely, life is good, I think.

"You are allowed to change your mind. You are allowed to start over. You are allowed to become soft with your sharp edges rubbed smooth like stone. You are allowed to harden like trees, petrifying, petrifying. You are allowed to fall into mistakes. You are allowed to fall into love. You are allowed to fall out of anything that does not catch you. You are allowed to lose yourself in the earth. You are allowed to drink a second cup. You are allowed to burn the bread. You are allowed to explore a path not prescribed. You are allowed to take a step off the edge of the earth. You are allowed to find it’s round. You are allowed to have your heart bruised. You are allowed to grieve hollow. You are allowed to be filled. You are allowed to pour into this world like wine. You are allowed to claim your wholeness with honesty. You are allowed to take long walks. You are allowed to carve time to breathe. You are allowed to love deep as marrow. You are allowed to dislike common things. You are allowed to forgive. You are allowed to weep. You are allowed to shape your life like clay on a wheel, rounding and billowing and never static. You are allowed to drive until the sky swallows you. You are allowed to sing the truest song you know. You are allowed to want more. You are allowed to let go, let go, let go. You are allowed to find home."
— Hannah Nicole, And This Song is Yours (via graceandvictory)



#they hurt him for knowing Steve #so of course he won’t admit to knowing Steve again #he can’t #it’s not allowed (via caughtinanocean)