“why do i have to make my bed every morning, again? it’s pointless, i just mess it up again at night.”
“why would you breathe if you’re just gonna die anyway?”
why do i breathe? ok. i breathe because living is something i want to do. so oxygen can sweep through my lungs and into my bloodstream into my heart into cells of tissue and organs, to carry my muscles onto the next mile. because that oxygen is there for more than allowing for blood to leak out of self made wounds. i breathe because there were fireflies in ancient greece and the gap between polaris and betelgeuse is exactly the size of my flashlight because i made it that way. for monarch wings and wax wings and airplane wings. because i still need to prove to myself the sun rises in italy, because there are books i need to read, because i’m going to hear my new favorite song tomorrow, and because even tomorrow, i’ll have today. i breathe because life is a choice, and i choose to breathe.
church is the most consistent variable in my life. three houses and fifteen years it took me to realize. in fifteen years i’ve learned who killed abel but not why i should see god in blooming daffodils.
is home a steeple? i do love stained glass sunlight & silver cups, but. i used to believe god played the organ, and there are decade-old drawings fingered into velvet pews half a country away, but.
but even after seven hundred eighty-nine sundays, why must i still chew the inside of my cheeks, on longer possessing the patience to love, hate, and pray on command, and lacking the talent to lie?
what is a home if you still question its foundation?
is home predisposed, or chosen?
what is a home if you don’t question its foundation?
i’ve been forgetting to count myself in groups lately. i hope god doesn’t have the same tendency.