How do you explain it?

Why do people feel compelled to stare at the sky? Why are we intrigued by trains, ands whistles in the night? Why are we so similar?

Morning, trying to find a new routine. Trying to end the book. I feel it so deeply now. Strange how much, actually. I feel like the people I wrote about are real. It is a strange thing to try to hear tne end of the song, to know how to fade it out, or end on what kind of note. I panic sometimes, not knowing. But then i say, rlk, be quiet. Just listen.

Changes

In winter, I was sort of lost.  Spring comes so swiftly.  Things change. 
I met somebody special and life is different.  The priorities shift.  But I have to figure out a way to balance the parts of my life I most like with being deeply involved with somebody.  I will figure it out.  It's my current challenge.

Interesting

I found inspiration in an amazing way.  I'm glad.

So badly

To get rejection after rejection and to keep going is something.  That's what I'm telling myself.

Real

When the computer was stolen from the car, window smashed,I couldn't breathe and wanted a little to die.  Then I didn't. I just wanted to sleep.
I wanted to know why this happened to me 
At some point, we have to be real. What's lost is lost and nothing changes that.  It applies to many parts of my life.  No more zombies in this life.  From now on, forward progress.  Living the alive part of life. 

Control

So there's this inclination: manage the flames if you can't quell the fire.  I don't care about any of it.
I think of driving west in the late afternoon as we slip to winter, and think of the heavy, wet lakes that come so close to the road. I think of the light, the darkness and coolness of the lakes and the sky above them, how I have no home except all homes, life.
This is the mud.  We are made of mud.
My heart remembers songs it never heard.
A person might ask, what have I done?
Nothing.  We've done nothing.  Nothing happens.  It doesn't matter.
The walls and the bridges and the guardrails.  The trees.
Drive past the trees, and remember.  The secret plans, the escape.
I don't remember things I should, because I am full of pretend things.
I see the lakes, I see the light, and I am my own memory.