27 January 2013
Dear Moonie,
Dear Starshine. Dear Starry Whale, diving with the sun carved on your back.
It's time to burst the bubble. The colours are pretty and swirly and it keeps the cold wind out, but soap will always sting your eyes when you press them up against the window pane,watching the world outside. The wiring is just fine, its the soap sheen that's blurring all your colours. It's time. You don't have to become of the world to touch it. So wave your little flippers, it's time to be born. Born everyday. The beginning hurts, and then it gets worse with the bright lights and noises you don't really understand, but so many eyes full of love. We've always spoken more with our eyes anyway. It's hard to control the mirrors turning straight into our brain.
People are not things. But they can be your Thing. Read Jane Austen. Read Mansfield park. Read Love and Friendship, but not like books. All people of the Austen world want something and do nothing at all. They sit in comfy armchairs and watch their husbands marry other girls because people are not things, why would you want to place a stamp on them right? It's not a stamp. It's a brand. It's a forever mark of pain that you belong here in this pasture, little lamb. The mark that tells you home is a place that is safe to sleep. When you are lost that kiss of iron will show everyone which way to point you back home.
You are not a book. You are a whale. It's time to learn to swim. It's time to want to break the surface. You want a beating heart between your ribs, you want an echo to rebound, you have to breathe in, you have to make the call. Hipsters always say we accept the love we think we deserve, but love takes everything in it's path. Like a tsunami. Extravagantly flooding your buildings. Love crashing through your soapy windows. Thank goodness you're a whale.
Decembermei.