misplaced heart

IT SEEMS I’VE LOST IT AGAIN. And it has been misplaced and later returned so many times before – always a bit more banged up than last I’d left it – that I’ve nearly forgotten where it’s gone and disappeared to this time; in whose reckless hands I’d lain it to rest; which familiar stranger swayed me to believe they would handle with care.

And here I am again, scrambling to find it, searching beneath the bed and inside every closet. I toss and turn deep into the dark night, anxious and filled with white hot worry that perhaps I’ve finally lost it forever. Maybe this last time really was the last time; maybe its faded edges and nicks in the center had decided they’d taken enough beatings.  They were raising a white flag into the sky.  They were tired of fighting for the love that never seemed to stick.

I curse myself for my carelessness; chew on my fingernails and wonder why I’d been so impulsive as to give away my most valued possession. And why had I ever anticipated that anyone might hold it so delicately in the palms of their own two hands, after I’d offered it up like yesterday’s news.  How could anyone see its worth if I myself so clearly could not?

And so I throw back the blankets and embark out into the night to find the heart of me; the one I keep giving away to all the wrong owners. I must find it.  I must get it back.  I must love it, hold it and fiercely protect it.  And when the time comes that I might find another tapping on the doors of my chest, asking to be welcomed in, I’ll make sure my heart is strong enough to trust itself.  I’ll make sure it has enough love inside before it goes looking for validation anywhere else.

born in words

SHE WAS BORN BETWEEN THE LINES and would spend a lifetime in search of the perfect words to explain it. And she viewed the world from far corners many never knew existed, where dreamers dreampt dreams set in technicolor motion. 

She lived for the moments in which ideas were born, for the object of her affection and greatest desire could be found scrawled in thoughts and sonnets and stories on the backs of to-do lists, paper napkins and torn journal pages. 

Her twisted pleasure came each time she sat down and set her pen to paper; each time she bled out black ink until she ran dry. Still, her truth was this and the only road to walk was the one that lay before her..

For all the world was a story it seemed, and she was born to tell it. 

paperback writer

If you’ve never been inside a second hand shop, there are things you must know. To the untrained eye, the disarray of what might just look like a collection of “other people’s crap” (as my dad would say) can be summed up as complete sensory overload.

I see something else, though. Maybe it’s because I’ve always had an appreciation for old things; things with stories behind them. I like to think of the worlds they might have once lived in before they began collecting dust; before they landed along the shelves of consignment shops and antique stores; displayed under white tents at flea markets.

Did someone love them once? Or were they only arbitrary items tucked away in rooms rarely visited? Is anybody wondering where their old toys went? Lost jewelry? Woven throws, hats and scarves?

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