fever to the page.

6S3A62006S3A61856S3A62056S3A62096S3A61786S3A62046S3A61996S3A6211The swallows are back in their nest on our porch. The sun turns the little corner in our kitchen to gold every evening. The days are long. The hills are green. It’s the season for living. I turn my face into the light and allow it to enfold me again. I become a version of myself I prefer to all others. This time of year, I get to shine.

I feel like myself in our little home. I get distracted by the light on the walls, the sky, the pink hue that is cast upon everything just before the day is finally gone. I feel like myself when I am still, when I listen and once again find that every moment has a rhythm, a melody, a pulse, where all the magic and energy of life is stored. It’s just waiting to be tapped into. I feel like myself when clicking a shutter, in a futile attempt to keep a hold on it, on these moments I can’t find a way to thank or appreciate before they’re gone.

I feel like myself when scribbling thoughts into disorganized journals with my favorite pen. I forget them almost as soon as they’re written, after I’ve transferred their fever to the page from my chaotic mind where they’ve no doubt been taunting me, maddeningly so, for days.

Within peace, I find myself. That is where my motive lies.

I feel like myself when I’m with him. Some days we’re somber and serious. Our words are few and our company subdued. Other times, we seem to bring each other to life. Laughing across the table at a restaurant, just him and I. It feels as if we’ve got something figured out that the rest don’t. And all it really is, in truth: All of these supposed-to’s, all of these expectations laid upon us to fit a mold, are really just other people’s projections. It is other people waiting for you to justify their own life to them. But we see this for what it is: a trap, disguised as convention. We know our life is ours. We’re making our own way. Everything else is just a template.

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