Originally deposited this on my crazy ramblings tumblr, but decided to include it here too. It’s a pretty good narrative of what’s been a large lump of my current frustration.
I wait up for people I shouldn’t.
I flock to artists,
people who breathe stories
and know how to put the
soul back in your eyes.
People with hands and mouths and voices
that mean something.
I like brushing fingers with those.
There’s magic at the edges.
…
But ours is too pragmatic a world
if you cannot always live at the seams
and I befriend too a more practical sort
with data and trends and facts
and a reality that will crush any of the hope you had
because there is no god anymore.
Not these days.
But I glory in the realness of what they hold,
the light in their hands so tangible
and undyingly right to believe in.
Here is a world of truth, they say.
The magic is in finding it.
…
Art and reality make such beautiful children.
I wish I weren’t just harboring nightmares.
Monsters, distortions, twisted fact flinging fate
at you like you were dead to begin with.
Even darkness can have opaque eyes.
I wish that I could see again.
Quill Aquiver 
