And stories shall become legends.

I don't know where I'll be in five years, or in ten. I thought I could predict life if I only tried hard enough; if I pushed into the tracks of my chosen path with all the force of my body, muscles tightening in anticipated soreness, to force a cart without wheels along the road I wanted to take. In my mind, I told myself that certainty was possible if I aligned the stars and synchronised the planets myself, whatever it took.

There's no road. None of us have a cart, either.

I cried about that for a long time. There's nothing I wanted more than knowing that what I did was surely correct. That with mathematical precision, my idea of a flawless outcome was achievable and I could chip it out of marble day by day, even if I saw nothing in the white stone.

In the end, we all just walk through the forest. The road we think we see is where light touches, or flowers grow, or water flows between the moss. Whatever draws you in becomes a path.

I don't know. That used to scare me. It still does, sometimes, when a new thing lands in the forest with a meteor-impact or a leaf crumbles from my oak tree.

There's no road. There's no cart. I don't know.

I just walk here and admire the sights.

“the meaning of life is love” if you mean romantic then no, I am walking away from your definition and mind that values romance as the single pillar of life. if instead you mean the devotion of a friend to knowing the recipe of your favourite soup, the never-ending patience of your fingers scratching your pet’s itchy fur in just the perfect spot, the gentleness of the old neighbour tending to flower that will only bloom one year but they think still deserve to have the best care, the child reading a book of its most beloved story to a sibilng. if you mean humanity looking at the world and asking “who are you and how can I love you” and after not getting an answer, inventing poetry and song and science to understand, to adore, to remember. then yes. I walk towards you.

Sometimes I sing for myself. Just me, no audience except some houseplants and the sun or moon or stars, whatever is up in the sky. This is not a performance. There is no review, no criticism, no intent. I dance to the line I love the most, and I might even sing it twice in a row.

Nobody is listening to tell me, “that’s not how the song goes. You’re doing it wrong. That note wasn’t correct.” I start over, I repeat the second verse, I put another song in the middle and come back to the verse I love the most. Nobody is listening.

Sometimes I sing for myself, because I can’t not, because there is a little joy in me that wants to be a melody.

And you know, I just can’t bring myself to run through life anymore, because after I noticed the landscape and flowers by the path and animals staring at me from the forest, I can’t run, I have to walk and watch and absorb.

being in your 20s and 30s is billy joel's "slow down, you crazy child" and “slow down you're doing fine, you can't be everything you want to be before your time” and “though you can see when you're wrong, you know you can't always see when you're right” all of a sudden and curling up around yourself, on the floor where it’s cool and calm, because yes I have to, and yes I am, and there is so much time and we are not running out because we are so so young in this world.

I think we love to feel nostalgic - discovering an old toy while cleaning up, the diary we forgot about until we open it again, the hobby we used to have and the songs we cried to - because we stand further away from the past now, thinking: Wow. Look who I am now. And look who loving this thing made me. Nostalgia is holding our memories with the hands they created.

some days I am like do not touch me I am the monster I spent my youth fearing I would become and other days I am like hug me hold me oh friends lend me the hand you first extended when you pulled me out of the depths and let me know I was never alone

And so she sang and sang and sang, until the sea drowned out her words and the forest swallowed what remained.

And she sang not to be heard, not to leave traces, not to leave proof or conjure a storm.

She did it to know that even at the end of the world, she still could.

your tears can salt someone's earth or spice a gently prepared meal. depends on you. how did you grow to be who you are? do you need to reopen the wound to bleed out the infection or do you need to grow a scab to heal?

cooking? exhausting. tiring. if I have to consider one more ingredient or have another day of wondering what dinner will be, I will remove my soul from the plane of reality and melt into the ancient universe soup that made me.

baking? joy. love. a smell that warms the house, and then, something hand-made and intentional. a piece of creation utterly yours.

Every time you happen to look up at the night sky when there is a full moon, it’s the universe’s way of giving you a wink. Maybe it says nothing, just giving a tiny nod of acknowledgement to one of its improbable outcomes (you). 

Or maybe it says, “do not worry; just watching, never expecting”. 

But if your lover composes a sea shanty to express his yearning for your kiss oh so tender, for you are the storm and he is only the sea moved by your strength - then what worth have the waves you have battled which he raised against you only to feel he could conquer with you a war he brought in the first place?

I see many people saying "omg other people my age have kids and I am here with my life in shambles"; 

and I think: 

There is no one way to be a mushroom. Have you seen how fucked up they are? How god-ignorant and wild? Listen to the mushroom wisdom. 

Do whatever stirs your soul.