I have a spot reserved in my heart for the small voice that speaks at the exact moment the yammering crowd silences –when the noise parts and the small voice says the thing everyone is to afraid to say—and usually the last thing I want to admit.
Finally.
Sort of.
|
|||||||
|
by Jill MacGregor The measure of who we are is what we do with what we have. ~Vince Lombardi
I have found myself running into the girl I used to be lately. You may think that must mean some carefree version of myself, untethered by serious adult themes but that would not be the case. There are points in your life when you want things to be different and you feel like you don’t get much say in the matter. The all consuming desire for that which eludes you… Sometimes when I am painting, I think my canvas may bow in the middle like a cheap swing set—a result of all of the layers of paint that are resting on it. You are a puzzle, my friend, a fascinating puzzle. You are one surprise after another, just like those crazy Russian nesting dolls. You’ve been clever and intricate with how you’ve bound up that heart of yours. I’ve been waking up every morning between 4-430 for the last several months and I hate it. I’m tired. There is no reason for me to be up at the crack of ass. Passion is such a ruling planet in all our lives–if we allow it. |
|||||||
|
Copyright © 2012 an agent of change - All Rights Reserved |
|||||||
