to you and yours
To your hearts. They're broken every day and sometimes they mend. Along the crack and the fissures, you'd expect them to be stronger than before like bones that have melded together. But no. Those cracks and those fissures; sometimes they set in a way more fragile and tenuous than before. It's like a baby with an eggshell skull, knocking about, unable to avoid sharp corners.
To your wild wild dreams. Those questions they ask you in an interview
What would you be if you weren't want you are now
. The answers are heavy with unspoken struggle, unquenched thirst, this restless, restless need. I want to be a writer. I want to be a mountain biker. I want to fly a plane or buy a piece of land in Martinborough. I want to be happy. I want a baby. I want a dog. I want I want I want. I want it all.
To your joy. A feeling of happiness that you cannot control. It spreads like a watercolour on the page, bleeding and spiralling and absorbing colours and tones. You can only watch, speechless and grinning, to see where it will take you, where it will stop, what it will look like when you step back and see what it is you have drawn.