“You should go to bed,” I tell myself.
“You are tired.”
I yawn, emphasizing the thought.
“Stay a while longer,” the internet purrs,
The bright glow of the screen
Tantalizing and seductive.
“Well maybe just five more minutes…”
And so the internet wins.
The internet always wins.
Daily Post Knackered
This should come as no surprise to any of you, but one of my favorite things about living in LA is the annual Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. For those of you who are unfamiliar, it’s a two-day event that takes over the entirety of the University of Southern California campus (Fight on, Trojans!) and is a weekend-long celebration of the written word. There are dozens of panels and discussions with authors; local (and not-so-local) vendors of books and all things literary set up shop in booths all across the university; live music serenades festival-goers throughout the day; food trucks assemble to create a makeshift food court. And over 100,000 people descend upon USC over the course of the weekend to take part in it.
100,000 people who are as big a book geek I am.
It is magical, and not just for the obvious reasons listed above.
Her life had been defined by shades of red.
The measurements of success
Are shifting in my mind,
Their tectonic plates
Shaking my assumptions
With every inch they move.
The change is arduous and slow
And not without its pangs –
It is, after all,
An alteration in the landscape
Of what I’ve always
Thought to be true.
But should the day arrive
When a new definition of success
Settles into place,
I suspect the view from atop its peaks
Will be a brilliant one to see.
via Daily Post: Measure
The world weighs heavy on my soul.
It screams out in pain.
Can’t you hear it?
Can’t you hear it calling for release?
Screams that echo into the void,
For words are far too small to contain
Such a tempest of grief.
These tears I shed
I shed for its cries
And the cries of all the millions
Who call this world home:
“It’s not supposed to be like this.
That’s not what they taught us.
It’s not what they promised.”
The liquid salt drops from my eyes
In rhythm to that discordant chorus.
My soul is heavy with the
Weight of the world,
For I am just one person
And there is so much hurt to heal.
(Author’s Note: I actually wrote this poem last year, giving it the oh-so-original title of “2016”. While I don’t recall which specific tragedies prompted its creation – there have been so many, after all – I really wish it would stop feeling so relevant so much of the time.)