what smiles make me think about

Living the life that made me again but I am different now even if I don't feel that way. It is undeniable. It is the way of the world. It is the way the earth moves. It is the way bodies sway. It is the way the world has unwound before me and as I walked in circles, new paths formed but I didn't take them, even the ones I did take never met my footprints, hopping on stones like a child, like the child, like me, like how I am never growing up, like how I see that in you, like how I hate that I don't even know you at all. In the way things go, this is how we ended up, and I am looking at the sky and seeing a reflection of the way I didn't go, the way maybe I ran away or maybe, for the sake of my sanity, I walked slowly in the direction of what I needed. I'm not sure yet how I ended up here or what it was exactly, just when you told me we belonged there, I knew I had to go. Constantly on a mission to prove I am air, I am movement, I do not belong anywhere, I am unchained, I am untrainable, I am in the wide sky with wings spread and when I look down, I will not see you holding me by kite strings: I will see the world looking up at me shouting "glorious birds, glorious birds!" and they will know what you never figured out. The world is waiting for your miracle and I am just sitting in the living room wearing sparkle tights and being happy to know that I know nothing. If the sky chooses to fall into my chicken soup, I will just be glad to have anything at all.

Blurbling.

There was fog then, in the darkness I could still muster a semblance of a face, a face like your face but I didn't know what it looked like yet, in the middle of the day, the way I know now, and now I see it all the time without a body, without anything but falling and it's just not that way. And we are with other people sometimes and we are alone so much more often without anybody knowing, without me knowing for sure. And I'm not sure yet that THAT is what is going on and I am not sure yet if I know who I am talking about, but when I woke up one morning, the fog lifted and God's golden stare came shooting out of my pores exactly like how you would hope it would.

So now I ask you this: LET ME IN.

Sometimes, when I am with myself in words like the way I am now, I am away from fog and from me but I am always in it except for months it was somebody else writing and hoping I would catch up. I remember when you wrote all the negative thoughts you had thought and threw them away, I could feel myself being ripped up and thrown away--- and it was weird because I don't even know what you wrote. And I am not mad about it. It was just something I could feel.

I am still sorting things out, but there will be a small apartment and a place where I can write. And there will be a stillness and a sound here. I will invite you over and even a casual conversation will feel exactly like cuddling.

“Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost. Because it's something to do to pass the time until she is old enough to experience the things she writes about.” 
― Nicole Krauss