And there in between the lilies that stood along the wall and the roses blooming near the fountain she waited. She waited for things to change. For things to get better. For him to show up. For wishes to come true and for love to pass by closer than ever.

She sat quietly in her dress. It was thin, white, beautiful and had a small hole near her knee where she had fallen the summer before. As she looked at it it reminded her of how he had chased her through town and how it was then that she knew. She had finally found him.

And now she sat alone.

On the edge of the fountain, near the flowers, under the oak, in front of the pines, to the left of the willow, behind the orchids, to the right of the ivy, inside of the garden.

Here, even though he would not come, she was happy. Because she knew that her heart was already taken. Taken by a man who already called her bride. A man who already knew the taste of her lips and the smell of her hair. Who knew the thoughts of her depth and who asked the questions that even her conscious was afraid to ask.

Anxiety the bitch and Pride the bastard.

Our anxiousness stems from deep longings and worldly desires. Desires to be accepted, to be praised for doing good, and to be found worthy and or full of worth.

But, when we fail to meet the expectations that either we set for ourselves or that other set for us, we become anxious that our pride will be hurt or diminished.

Thus, the compromising of ones pride brings on great anxiousness. Or, anxiousness brings on a filthy protection of ones pride.

You are such a bitch anxiety.
You are such a bastard Pride.

Lord, pillage these twins of sin from our bodies.

#1

There are dances that i cannot dance.
There are songs that i cannot sing.
There are roads that i can't travel.
There are thoughts that i am scared to think.

So i will do all of these things.

And this will make joy.

Generational longing.

Our generation holds onto the things of our parents generation because when we are their age everything will be digital and high definition.

We do it because we long for those simpler times. For a time when an unlocked front door brought with it no suspicion or doubt; fear, angst, anxiety.

For a time when pictures were naturally sepia and when the 4th of July meant something to a neighborhood.

We live in a place where we cut ourselves off from the world with tiny white ear-buds and personal playlists. A place where a screen has replaced a face and where icons replace rope swings.

I want to go back to that time when people living four doors down would know my last name. I want the reality of ten television channels and stories on the radio. I long for that time when dresses were mother made.

Let's go to that place where apple pies sit on unlocked window sills and where the term 'predator' refers to a sahara hardened Lion.

When can we leave?

When can we stop living through the photographs that we find in our parents closets; tucked away in shoe boxes?

When is that time? When does that come?