Big Bird Brings Spring to Sesame Street

i can't remember the last time i sat down and wrote for myself, not in cryptic poetry or song lyrics to be read into, but simple prose that mapped out my heart. i've written away bits of my heart to my friends in emails or facebook messages or texted about them or packaged them in pleasant sounding mysteries here and there, but really journaling, it's been a while. ever since i decided it was futile that night a few months ago, that was probably the last time, and even that was the first time in another long time. and now, i wouldn't know where to start even if i wanted to. and like i was telling you, i'm scared to start journaling again- i'm scared that if i do, i'll drown. and maybe, even more than that, i'm scared that i won't drown, i'm scared to find that there's nothing left. 

i feel like big bird in that one book where he buys a bouquet of flowers early one morning from mr. macintosh and then gives each of the flowers away on the way back to his nest. at first, he feels sad that he has no flowers to brighten up his nest, but then he realizes that it's okay because this was the way it was meant to be, this was better than keeping all the flowers for himself.

journaling is hard to pick up after you stop for a long, long while. your heart gets all out of tune or maybe, it's the same old tune, but you just forgot what it sounded like. so i sit here, and i close my eyes and hold my breath- lest breathing causes me to miss a heartbeat, misinterpret a heartbeat. 

i wonder how long this will last. if this is only because we're people who love moments so deeply, so intensely. but intensity doesn't last, if it did, it wouldn't be intensity. intensity is by definition temporary. i don't want this to pass. i don't want to bemoan time and space alone. and as much as i'm convinced for me it won't pass, maybe for you, but not for me, for me this is the real deal. i've seen it pass. or at least i convinced myself it did. i just want this to be it.

absence diminishes small loves and increases great ones, as the wind blows out the candle and blows up the bonfire. i wish i could take credit for coming up with that, but i can't, it belongs to francois de la rouchefoucauld. and it makes so much sense.

well, i've made up my mind that i want you to be the one-
the one i wanna be with when i'm ninety-two.
- plain white t's