Writing

Holy shit, we did it 

89 days of 15-hour nights that we survived 

The many miles in many layers trudged through many inches of snow are behind us 

The weeping willow shimmers, the water droplets gleaming in her sunlit hair.

A dryad floats above her, in the air.

They unify, becoming one.

In Summer, the Willow cries with joy, enjoying the sun.

I reside in a foreign land, 
An unfamiliar place 
Where I left all familiarity behind. 

I keep running, 
But my past moves faster 
Than I ever could. 

To be your child.

What would it mean to be your child?

Would you still be proud?

And when they refuse to treat me right, 

Would you stand up and be loud?

a time, there was a girl who adored space. She read pages upon pages of books about constellations and the stars, memorizing names and how many miles away they were from earth.

Dear Anthony Bourdain 

somewhere between the time you died and the time you lived 

i found a part of myself in the words you spoke