[hearts cannot grow in swollen lands]

tiny worlds held together by their tightly wound little selves that exist nowhere and nothing outside of themselves does either

words glimmer solely as mirrors to their enormous beings that tower over the tired futility of wordsmiths

and feelings are mere moments in a triumphant globe of disconnection and pools of reflection that reject all else-universes

hearts cannot grow in swollen lands bursting incredibly at the seams


frozen flora
from rest to sp_in_
some cheerless sun
creeping nearer
all ends must start
a stillness ceased
a beating heart

[tales of synchronicity]

I was on the train to PA (as I usually am at least once a week) a couple of weeks ago. I was reading something, I forget exactly what, and I was reminded of Gretchen Rubin, the writer. I’d read her book The Happiness Project last year when I was desperately looking for some happiness in the middle of a dying romantic relationship. So, I was reminded of her, I thought about the book, and I looked up and saw a girl sitting diagonally across from me reading a book. The colors on the cover looked familiar. Blue and yellow. I caught sight of the title. A shiver ran down my spine. Need I tell you which book it was?

No matter how much I believe in synchronicity, its magic still manages to catch me off guard. I couldn’t love it more if I tried.