Look what you did...

You little jerk.

I going to go to sleep early tonight. It's heavy here. I can feel miles of delusion piling onto my shoulders. And the nighttime, summer air is weightless. Things stop making sense when I start thinking sensibly.

The cobbled paths, the strange atmosphere, the people... I'm starting to love it all. And I'm trying to rationalize everything else in my life. And it grounds me. But I was not made to be rational or reasonable or planted. I'm like the fluff of a cottonwood. I'm meant to wander, to roam, to defy reason and longing, to be steady, reliable, free from misinterpretation. This heart wades restlessly, waiting to be used to its fullest potential. Where is my potential? I am made for love - senseless, restless, reckless, unselfish love.

I'm a writer of words, a lover of souls and creator of destinies. Come here. Walk with me to buy coffee, one cream, two sugars. Sit uncomfortably close and listen as I spill myself to you. Come unhinged. Let go of you and me. Walk with me in silence. Stop. Don't do anything. Become one with your nothingness.

Every day I resist the urge to let completely go. I want to know everyone's life story - the past, the present, the in betweens and even the parts not written. I want to know that you don't enjoy crayons, that you eat ice cream with a fork, that your favorite color is goldenrod, that you prefer green vegetables, that you're afraid of backseats. And I'll tell you how I used to spend weeks of summer in a tent in my neighbor's back yard, how I can't stand the sound of popping knuckles, how I think that my life is not really meant for me, how I love cashews, how I prefer Michael Jackson to Alan Jackson and Johnny Cash to both.

Tonight I sleep. I'll make sense tomorrow.