Well, the 31 year old me failed my daily blogging. But I don’t mind, because the 31 year old is gentler and kinder and really trying at self caring.
Today, I found beauty in this poem. In a world that currently feels as though the beauty must be hunted for.
Good Bones. Maggie Smith.
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine.
In a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways. a thousand deliciously ill advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least 50% terrible and that’s a conservative estimate. Though I keep this from my children.
For every birth, there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged sunk in a lake.
Life is short, and the world is at least half terrible. And for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you.
Though I keep this from my children.
I am trying to sell them the world.
Any decent realtor walking through a real shit hole, chirps on about good bones. This place could be beautiful right?
You could make this place beautiful.