Drunken iNote Manifesto

I believe in proximity infatuations serving as a healthy substitute to true love. I also believe this to be a fault and the single greatest source of sadness in my life. I believe in warm coffee cups in cold hands. I believe espresso art should be collected in a coffee table book. I believe there’s a pun there, but I’m far too drunk to explore its possibilities.

I believe in those tiny moments before a lighting storm where the hair on your arm stands on end, and you consider for a split second that there may be forces larger than yourself controlling anything resembling a destiny. I believe in dirty rain that seems to fall from another dimension, washing this town clean, and by extension, me.

I believe there is healing in the sight and sound of ocean waves breaking on an empty beach at four in the morning. I believe in sand castles and flip flops and vanilla ice cream cones on hot summer afternoons.

I believe I’m meant for grander things. I also believe we lie to ourselves in order to justify certain actions or inaction, and I believe that’s okay so long as we never truly believe.

I believe there to be a Medusa-like power hidden deep within the cobalt of her eyes, and with every glance I steal it grows increasingly difficult to look away. I believe in the love I feel, and how I’m the king of missed opportunities, all of which are bottled and saved like tears for a Pensieve.

I believe in laughter so authentic it hurts, or snorts or squeals like a tiny circus mouse. I believe in the lost art of listening to someone when they speak, and remembering the little things that constitute the sum of a person. I believe in shoulders to cry on, lean on, and laugh on. I believe in performance art practicing simple, unadulterated, mystifying, heartbreaking kindness every. single. day. I believe the mysterious meaning of life does not lie in some destination on a horizon we may never meet, but in the getting there.

I believe in rum and pirates and buried treasure excavation quests. Sometimes I believe we bury the treasure within ourselves, and that’s a whole lot harder to dig up. But… I also believe Goonies never say die.

Broken

It always comes back to this.
The sky falling upward.
The ground beneath my feet
sinking away.

The face of a friend,
burning like a satellite upon reentry,
crashes through my peripheral.
Her coordinates perpendicular to my own,
separated by this line on our horizon,
this equator of meticulous doubt
and hope and love
and hate and sex
and greed
and life.

The nurse looks me in the eyes;
she wants to know why I did what it is I did.
As if my heart
lying here as broken as a femur
is no indication at all.