turquoise

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No, I could never buy you anything like that. It's just too simple, and you're just not. Like a storybook for children dialed up to eleven times the price when it's just a chip of ice. Real stones don't rush to ornament a neck, a limb, a someone wanting something. Real stones are always slower than anyone, slower than everyone put together tripping toward beauty, somewhere on the fringe of oceans salty and skyward rage. You can't live and die in a jewel the way you can when you just wear a page: Real stones are beyond moment. Real stones live without the torment of things. Real stones move with cosmic wings: time itself trickling like nectar to fill every crevice of the soul when you swim against the shoal Don't mistake loneliness for the worth of polished rock. Don't confuse a glimmer with the terror of being stuck. It's okay to taste muck. It's okay to feel yuck. It's okay to not know A life is not a simple show It's misery. It's mystery. But it's more than that: it's ecstasy. And what could shine more brightly and with more surprising facets than the hubris of hypocrites tripping toward wholesomeness by every habit and hack? What's so wrong with a beaten track and a waterfall, companion, a backpack? Why don't we skip all that noise? It was only ever turquoise.

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