What if our bones are just pens, and we’re all walking around this earth trying to write the story of ourselves onto its pages?

We run around this weird, round planet leaving awkward drops and traces on this canvas, so desperate to spell our names out on it before time eventually outruns us. ..

It always does, right?

Sometimes it’s 11:48 at night. And you’re sitting on your couch wondering if all of it just boils down to figuring out if anything you’re doing says ‘I was here.’ Or ‘hey, I mattered.’

Cause I mattered… right?

And you just wish someone could confirm that. That we were different. That we did something.

Maybe we were somebody’s somebody. The one that changed something for them. The one that comes with a before and after.

And then it’s 11:49 and I think maybe when we’re upset and we run outside as fast as possible to get away from whatever it is we are feeling, only to trip on something that isn’t there…

Maybe it’s just the equivalent of me trying to type out these thoughts that are gone before my fingers catch up.

11:51. And why are we driven to make things- just to show each other? Can I please give humanity a high-five? Here we are, making music, and art, and words and pictures that move…. because we feel things, and we want to show other people what’s inside of us, so maybe they’ll feel it too. And isn’t that just another way for us prove to each other that we exist?

And then it’s 11:57 and sure, I lost a few minutes, but what does it even matter. The night doesn’t care at all. It doesn’t do deadlines. It does not get excited if my heart is on a trampoline or if some days seem like they were made to be sad, even if you don’t know why.

11:58 and I wonder why 11:59 never seems to matter, or if it ever gets offended that people just see it as sixty seconds before midnight.

Tomorrow is always more exciting than yesterday’s crumbs.

Unless you’re someone who can’t quite get over nostalgia and playing out all the ways you might have done something differently that one night, just in case God does rewrites.

But I’m not convinced that God is an editor.

Questions are so much louder than answers.


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