Roots

 Sequined flamingoes and pale cherry lipstick on sandy skin freshly cut hair light as feathers against the cheeks. Loafers and an engagement ring sit across from me on the bus. Like the community garden across the street, so close but an odyssey away. Joining that community garden will mean that I have reached a certain time in my life. 

But maybe you should live the life you want now. Right? Despite the fact that you feel like an apple in July: too bitter to eat. Or the ocean: salty as fuck. Unready and unstable. Maybe the story happens out of order. No one says you can't live your utopia. Unless it's against the law. But lots of people live around the law. Like the guy who smokes a fatty on Saturday mornings right outside my window so I have to leave to not get contact high. Or is it too late?

He's living how he wants. Or needs for that matter, which might be interchangeable.

Have you built up walls? Can someone please tear them down? I don't want to have to do it for myself. But that's what Joseph Campbell was  saying: "You need to save yourself and in saving yourself you save the world." The work is yours. 

Yes. I believe it. Things are getting better quietly. Healing underneath. It necessarily must heal beneath the storms. Quiet actions, slow as growing roots all white and pale in wet brown dirt. If we can just poke our heads up into the air, we might find those small tendrils might be just enough.