Muse





Inspiration.
Where do I find it?
Deep inside of my cluttered thoughts.
Growing at the base of a tree downtown Vancouver. Dripping off awnings.
Inspiration seldom travels alone.
Purpose.
The reason to act on inspiration.
Drive to complete the impossible.
Reminding me to continue.
Purpose brings with it dreams.
And dreams, well, dreams are a complication of color and emotion. Hopes riddled with texture untouchable yet achievable. Time and place splashed across your face. Unruled and free. Space to stand in. The length to run. It’s one-twenty in first. It’s lungless life and a six-pack of cards. You can play all night. Its coffee, protein and four am. It’s a borderless world. It’s a massage under your skin and we all have two pairs. It’s waking up late on time. It’s over two a month for twelve. It’s spending time outside. It’s dressing down and moving up. It’s freezer burn on the roof of your mouth. Three sheets and four fingers. Its memories you haven’t had yet. Its water breaks and socks unmatched. It’s a yoga routine before bed. It’s a night out alone, you left your friends at home. It’s Books that read themselves. It’s New Years Eve at work. It’s knitting and red apples in a crate. It’s a convertible in the snow. It’s manic. It’s a frog in your pocket and it’s all changing in harmony. It’s medium medium.
It’s finding inspiration in everything you see.
In each breath, every touch and all words left unsaid.
It’s all encompassing.
And it’s the beautiful music surrounding all of this.

I found inspiration in a person once.

All My Dreams

There are a lot of things I want to do. Dreams that I might never realize. Weight on my shoulders. Constantly designing a new me. I get under and stay deep in my skin. Privately lost in a sea of thought.
Ideas swarming like flies in the morning.
I can’t sleep.

Each day I wake to paint my face fresh. Making sure of the details. And it makes me weary to keep you from knowing that I am completely aware of every moment that I’m not living my dreams. Time ticks every day. Never asking permission. Days move smooth from your fingertips, even when they make a fist.

Time does a dripping across the eyes of this old house. Finding faults to bunker in.
Cozy.
Wrapped in truth.
Undeniably warming.
An inevitable repair left for next time.
Time holds here fast.
Distracting the breeze for a while
While time sits deeper.

Fuel. I turn it into fuel.
Cause I don’t want to stand by while my dreams cloud over. I don’t want them to forget me. And when I’m left to look back I want to see me the way my father dreams me.

Manic