Maybe pragmatism is the inevitable result of experience, of paying attention. Have the years worn us down or built us up? That’s what I always cannot determine. Some days, I do troll a boatload of illegal words around slowly. There’s no place to dock these thoughts that climb my walls and write themselves across the milkyway and out on to my arms. But I don’t know if that is a bad thing. Was there ever land for them, really? Mostly, I say nothing all, until the time is right. Tread water until I learn to float silently. I’ve rarely understood that that was an option in life. And yet, sometimes, I just ride beside you and lie beside you and walk bare foot through your house and say no words. And my mind is blown at the fact that somehow, in time, most of what needs to still gets known. Maybe that’s the point – maybe it’s not pragmatism so much as a realistic sense of place, of power. For all our yelling, did we ever really convince anyone of anything? I’ll take this quiet.
been thinking: I wanted to mention that.
its hard not to wax nostalgic when these words made me cry like a baby at my desk.
