I threw out the dead plant yesterday and ordered new bulbs. Guitars are talking to me. Notes, light and pretty. New. They don’t care about the bullshit. About the macho. They dance. They skip into my heart. I am that girl with braids and freckles, smiling and playing. She doesn’t care what others think. She’s the source, the original.
A new season coming soon. Warmer temps mean I can run outside again. Be by the water again. Slough off some layers. Regenerate. I am forgetting it all. Forgetting all the old stuff. I remember this stanza: