all the fires rage, but burn with a slower pulse. i see the light in which i want to dance and lament no longer the idea of the passing of my youth with it's sublime arrogance and naivety. we grow like matryoshka dolls. like tree rings. ever upwards and out. nothing is discarded. there is only growth. and layers.of the things that really matter people rarely speak. perhaps you would disclose the details of the first heart you held in tentative, greedy hands, but what about all the yous you do and don't present to the world. the combination, contradictions and division of your selves. the way you count the memories you will never have and paint them down your chest in those shadowy places where night leaks through the curtains and you scrape it all together in the hope something will make sense. the way you struggle sometimes to follow your own lead, your own hidden ways through the ever growing noise of trivialities to hear the drum to which your feet beat the earth in time with it's rhythm. your rhythm.
dance. be reminded of the splendour concealled in all the colours and chemicals and cosmoses your body contains. read the weather, the seasons, the poets, the rise and fall of longings. read the signs that point to everything that makes your heart swell. those things we know for certain are few, but that is the beauty. loosen your grip and breathe. make of it what you will, but do not blame insecurities on the restless things. they were born to move.