I really just want to let it all go. You and you and you. 

I feel that I live intentionally, or my actions have intention, every single one of them, but sometimes they feel directionless. 

What do I do with directionless intention?

To the two of you that said you’d like if I put up the screenplay I wrote, I’m flattered, just by your thoughts. You’ve convinced me. Guess that wasn’t so hard. 
I understand if you don’t get through the entire thing, or decide not to read it after all, but here it is.
If you do read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts. As of now, let’s just call it: “Letting Go.”

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Shine on, blush deep, blush like you’ve just stepped in from a blizzard
Your eyes always speak aloud, with brilliance that’s lit from the inside
Keep that spark lit, don’t ever let your embers flicker out
I love you for all that you are
In your timid shyness, you linger in the sunshine
All that you forget about yourself, I’ll keep safe for you
Shine on, and remember just this, with the way you shine, you can’t help but be found. 

A month ago, I wrote a script/screenplay. I’d post it here or link it even, but it’s over 20 pages. So I guess that’s not happening.

I will always be.

Unbeknownst to you, my dealings are illicit
And every moment we propose to inspire 
We ponder in the vapors rising in the air
Could you see me through the smoke,
Will you breathe in what I have let go? 
Light up, watch the flame, down to the ashes. 

Smoke mirrors. 

Blow trees in the wind and walk a few lines. 

Read what I write, but read what I haven’t written.
Everything is there if you just look.  

So tell me, have I crossed the line?
Have I lost my sense of morals and direction?
Do I know what I’m doing?

I already know the answers, at least for those questions.

The others will come in time.

What’s up next? 

Sometimes I have boundless energy and no one can even try to keep up with me. 

We smoke illusions, speaking of mindless musings and endless thoughts. The night becomes ours and we linger in the haze a little longer, believing in something real, a bit of the truth to speak to us as we wait. The air turns white, our breaths staining the cold. Or is it those illusions? 

I miss home. I want to go back to NY for the holidays.