“Our breath is brief, and being so
Let’s make our heaven here below,
And lavish kindness as we go.”
― Robert Service
I carried one of his books back with me across the country. She stuffed it hurriedly and importantly into my bag. Pages swept with sea, torn and stained by a hurricane. I carried it to the desert and here it sits, on my old desk next to the marigold, importantly. I saved one of his masks from the old Ford. It fell into my lap as I pulled the visor down.
I’m having trouble being here. What is there to do that can be more important than sitting with a feeling? I am not certain that I am ever going to be the kind of person that I admire. Maybe it is best time to reckon with myself.
I would be a terrible bore to play chess against, because I am forever lingering. I’ve wanted to be the type of person that moves quickly and in a way that propels growth. Maybe I can be okay with the lingering. That could be enough for now.
I just know that all I ever want to do is lie in bed and read dead poet’s words. I want to sit in the soft sand and listen to seagulls fight over corn chips. I want to laugh with my aunt in the dewy grass and talk until memories feel real.. I want endless night hours, filled with slow dancing to Bruce Springsteen. To slip between unknown meridians of time, because it doesn’t matter, really.
I want to sleep in my dad’s oversized old t-shirt until I feel better about waking up and making decisions that move me forward, away from here.
Jillian Prendergast. Writer. 