do you remember the first time you were called annoying?
how your breath stopped short in your chest
the way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze
the way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue.
your eyes never left the floor that day.
you were 13.
you’re 20 now, and i still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,”
apologies littering every other sentence,
words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years.
i could listen to you forever, though i know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious.
all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard
for 3 minutes
for 10 minutes
for 2 hours
there will be people who cannot handle your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart;
mostly because they can’t handle their own.
but you will never be
and have never been
"this started as something completely different, but everything comes back to you, doesn’t it?" - tyler ford (via tylerthelatteboy)
We’ve been driving for the last 8 hours
across the Nevada landscape which,
for this native, born and bred Oregonian,
is fucking insane. The landscape here is so
wide I feel like it can swallow me at any moment.
I’m used to seeing borders and hills and all these
textures, but here, it is flat. Here, it looks like
there truly is an edge of the world and I could
drop off at any second. It is so wide. It is so
beautiful. With plateaus that look like mountains
with the tops chopped off perfectly still,
the ruby sun sinking back into the horizon,
we’re driving in a place where we look out
for coyotes and lizards and where the moon
and the stars look truly massive. We drive
past bullet-ridden road signs and pull
into Denny’s parking lots and have
conversations that last longer than these roads.
Then, we look at each other and think,
This could be home-
As long as you’re here.
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you every where
like a shadow or a friend.