Slow slow

Tabula Rasa over and over like crimson and clover. I'm trying to build my new life here. Everyone say's "this is your time." This is my time, but wasn't it always... mine? There are so many things I am pleased with and a few things I'm not. Overall I'm just living... Isn't that the point? Lately I feel like the anchor has been cut. Sometimes I am the anchor and sometimes I am the boat. Sinking. Drifting. Rising. Falling. It's exhausting. I want to find the shore. Dry land... at least until it rains. The truth is... I'm tired of thinking about me and my time. I think I will stop trying to build things and just let them grow. Moss on rocks, you can't expect it to appear overnight. It takes years, and if you try to fake it the moss will die. True story. I read it in a book. The rain is good tonight, making everything slow, slow.

And the rest of our lives will the moments accrue
When the shape of their goneness will flare up anew
Then we do what we have to do(-re-loo-re-loo)
Which is all that you can do on this side of the blue
-joanna newsom, this side of the blue