#bluesblurbs

[sing-bluebird-sing]

No, no, no, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’ll smile next time, I promise I’m not like this. No, I’m sorry. I’ll let you know how happy I am next time. I mean it, there is good in me. Please don’t look at me and frown. Please don’t tell me how awful I am. I didn’t realize you were staring—please, I’ll smile.

—An Ode to Bitchfaces and the Unfortunate Isolation They Bring

[sing-bluebird-sing]

Time is a sand that sifts through your fingers. People far and wide have attempted to capture such a fragile thing, to encase it in glass and claim: ‘Here it is! Here is this wonder of nature we have tamed.’ But people can do no such thing. Time, it flies past your face and weathers your hands. It comes back around and presents to you all the things that could have been. It’s a whirling storm, all crystals and particles that will eat away at you if you get too close. Time erodes. It breaks everything down until it is dust, until it can join the rivers of sand flowing through the air. It is a thing best observed from afar. You place it safely in the back of your mind, nestled in with childhood memories and first loves and regrets. It is the only way you can survive it. You step on the sand, wipe your hands off of it, because it will otherwise simply pass through your fingers, such is time.