Heartbeat

I'm in my room.

On my bed, leaning against the wall.

Cory Asbury is on beside me, soulfully singing, "I love you, I love you, Jesus..."
I just got the Let Me See Your Eyes cd and I can't stop playing it. I fell asleep to it last night.

I look around and can't help feeling so glad that my style has changed so much, since... I don't know. But it changed and changes.

I used to write big and bubbly, adore bright colors, like huge patterns like stripes and polka dots, listen to electric-guitarry songs. Boldness, I liked that.

So not true today.

My favorite colors are gray, brown, olive green, toned down, darker.

My handwriting. Smaller, more slanted.
I even changed my a's this summer, to the other way.

I have a rougher, woodier room now. Old desk, bookcases, a cabinet that is dark and made from an old radio. Dried, brown flowers. Black and white Ansel Adam pictures, a loon poster, Lake Superior post card, a painting of a woman reading, all on my walls. Birchbark around the base of a lamp. Rocks held in pottery, rocks on the windowsills, rocks with lines and dents and rust. Candles, a cactus, books, curtains, a wind chime, a beat up and old acoustic guitar, on and on.

I wouldn't have liked this a year ago, I bet.

I love it now. It's mine. Comfy, faintly messy, not artfully arranged, but set down warmly.
At least that's how it feels to me.

I'll probably get sick of it soon.
I constantly rearrange, switch rooms, beds.

I don't know why I do, when I adore patterns and things staying the same for so long.

And instead of boldness, I like faintness, roughness, quieter, grayer, whispers instead of shouts.

Yeah. It's mine.
It's mine.

That's probably why it feels good to me.