today.

today you are missed.  like every day precious girl, like every day.  but today especially.  i am sitting in starbucks, thinking about you, crying.

what is it that destroys our spirit?  or are we born with it?  an awareness that no one makes it out of this game alive?

She tips her head to the side and it all falls out.  Everything she has been hiding.  Everything she has been keeping secret.  It is there, sitting in her lap.  And it’s nothing special really.  It’s the same fears and hopes and dreams that everyone carries.  She is not special, she knows this.  There is nothing rare about her.  She floats around in her life wasting it.  We all waste it, what makes a worthwhile life?  What makes an admirable goal?  Happiness?  It is a facade, a mirage in the desert.  There is no happiness, there is only a salivation for more.  There is no contentment to be found, just a fueling passion for better.  There is no saving, there is only dying amongst the wreckage, a brittle pot cast on the stones, a clay figure stomped under foot.


We all pull back the curtain eventually, my time came sooner than most. Hi, Mr. OZ, it's nice to meet you.