Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them by clicking here.
Day Ninety-Nine (August 3rd) A pink lemonade sunset showers the sky, and I rest my eyes on a moment worth remembering Day One Hundred (August 4th) I grasp for ideas like prayers in the dark, fingers fumbling, half hoping I don’t run into anything that might make me question my reality Day One Hundred and One (August 5th) I want the words to be as beautiful individually as they are in a row. I want to weave a tapestry with threads of silver and gold. I want to play a Stradivarius at Carnegie Hall. I want to layer beauty and pain and hope and heartbreak and swallow it all like it’s the first water I’ve seen in an endless desert. I want to consume and be consumed. I want to exist in my body and in your mind. I want to know none of this matters and to love it all anyway. Day One Hundred and Two (August 6th) To be alone is to be all one Day One Hundred and Three (August 7th) Time is only what we imagine it to be. I wonder what a different clock might look like. Day One Hundred and Four (August 8th) Once the shore disappears, the ocean becomes endless. When we stop seeing our limits, our imagination becomes a steady wind filling the unfurled sails. Day One Hundred and Five (August 9th) I haven’t bought new underwear since before the pandemic; my collection is wearing a bit thin. Some have fraying elastic or period stains. Others are a bit looser than they used to be. But I have no one to impress and no reason to be anything other than comfortable. Day One Hundred and Six (August 10th) Some habits are harder to make than to break. I’m still waiting for this one to take. Day One Hundred and Seven (August 11th) Wind regimes forecast thunderstorms like divining rods of old. Listen for the whisper of the weather sighs. Day One Hundred and Eight (August 12th) tears of laughter fall joy bubbles from the belly heat delirium Day One Hundred and Nine (August 13th) *Inspired by this newsletter from Ella Francis Sanders Unknowable fingerprints left on incomprehensible threads whisper mysteries to those willing to listen. The memories of the universe offer themselves to the searchers, whose curious hands grasp for the subtle secrets of that which we do not understand. Day One Hundred and Ten (August 14th) All that we have is never enough. All that we want is always too much. Day One Hundred and Eleven (August 15th) In this heat, it’s not long before I look like the leaves and wilt under the weight of summer Day One Hundred and Twelve (August 16th) Sometimes, in the dead of night, I lie in bed and watch my thoughts spiral out of my head and into the mysterious dark
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