i put too much stock in sincerity, i think

my stomach does somersaults for about the millionth time. i want to write in this way. i mean, i want my soul to resound through every single sentence. a soul, to me, has always been bound to frilly religious nonsense about angels and devils and afterlives. but whitman's made me disagree ("dismiss what insults your own soul", so forth) and lately i've had these moments, these pinpricks against a part of me that i often forget about. sometimes it stirs to life on a hot afternoon in the shade, when i'm sitting indian style in the grass with shoes flung aside. i get a giddy swell from park life rustling and chattering, from the sight of autumn leaves and rows of park benches. each an island unto itself, with endless combinations and varieties of inhabitants. i've got a soul in here, no doubt. it needs to be beckoned and drawn out, is all.

i keep wondering if anything truly sinks in. if i could view my days as a time-lapse movie, i don't think i'd want all this. enough of this mulling over what i'm full of, capable of, meant for. this life is more than transitions. things are incredible. i'll be damned if i'm going to curse this year away. i'm learning and growing. in travel the skin of my fingertips shall become as the sea and i'll love harder than i can breathe. this year, i will.