I have always been fascinated by the human condition, curious about the pulsing in each of us, the fires, the reasons we burn. I’m constantly eager to ask someone who they love, what moments cause their heart to grows three sizes, the last time they cried. We’re all tiptoeing inside of each others stories, hoping no one will write poorly of us in their current chapter. Scurrying across sentences, leaping over plot lines, hoping that our place in their life will end in an exclamation point. We want to be something to each other. How beautiful, how overlooked, how morphed.

I want to welcome the human condition into the messy home of myself, to reach my hand out and say, “me too.” To pay careful attention to the excitement of someones spirit. I want to see their eyes when they tell me about their first love. Hear their voice crack when they tell of how it broke their heart, how gone they were from happy. I want to put my hand over their chest to feel where it ripped. And then marvel at the laugh lines that patched it up. Rejoice over the human ability to fight, to rise.  

I am in love with us, humans. We are free falling, horrible, breathtaking beings. And so terribly, marvelously misunderstood. Surviving for some of us looks like our heart always in bar fights, like holding up poems in a war zone. Some of us have forgotten that our fists are not our voices, that our hearts are much louder than our egos. 

Power is not meant to look like an argument, it is meant to look like shattered pieces turning themselves into stained glass. Like taking something that was never meant to be beautiful, and blowing peoples minds.