I recently ran across a body of collected works that can be done no justice by the word 'beautiful.' They are raw, they are real, they are emotional, they are rational, they let go, they hold back; they say a lot of things I myself have said more than once or twice in all my twenty years. As I was going over them, I could not help but recall that I had not felt so instant a connection with any literary work/works since my last perusal of the psalms. I dunno about you, but occasionally I find myself in the middle of writing a song that starts to sound all too familiar to me. So I'll put down my notebook and pen to open up to the psalms, where I nearly always find that David has beat me to my thought by a more than a few centuries.
I'm sitting there, you know, all wrapped up in this newly acquired literary volume of sorts, when I start to sincerely believe that if there exists a soul out there, such as the author's, that is as much in tune with my thought as his so obviously is, then there must be a beautiful someone who will, some day, who knows how far from now, know, without ever having read today's blog or probed my brain for any indication of it, that all I want to do on beautiful days like this one, is to lay down on the grass with him until said grass semi-permanently submits to the pressure of our collective weight, and we have made grass angels.
I know, it's sappy, but it's how I feel, and I felt it necessary to share. This day has been a helluva long one, and I still am not quite sure how all its events have led me here, but they most definitely have, and with that, I'm outie. Peace.