Seventeen Years of Blues and Yellows in the Woman of Billie Marten

Sometimes I feel like a moon shot spat out of a gravitational lasso, missing a planetary caress while I’m trying to be the best person I can.

Integrity, honesty—they’ll flatten me when their gift to some is never enough. So there I lay listening for my heartbeat finding stillness instead, a state of illusory void I acknowledge. But I have to get up from this mat. Where is my saving hand?

Olivia Bartley’s Self Talk Stole My Heart in Thirty Seconds

It had been a tough couple of weeks. One of those periods when your head fills with cobwebs and the strategic picture flashes like a poorly fit neon sign pulsing an annoying buzz each illumination cycle. “Eat at Joe’s” it might say for a brief time but you’d know the gravy would be lumpy and the ketchup rimmed with crust. So you walk by.