היא הופכת

These words are elegant, they are poetry. 
I am lost, but they are found. 
They are a map to my bare, wandering feet.


On my bed I remember you; I think of you through the watches of the night.  
Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings. My soul clings to you; your right hand upholds me.   
-Psalm 63:2-8


A brilliant musician, David, wrote these words. I wish for the gift to write as he did, to create melodies without making noise--to heal and move humans through the art of noise. Is this sensible?
I sure hate the feeling of inadequacy. But I suppose we're all infected with it. 
Good thing God is attracted to those sorts of souls.

14th of February

Between ordering tarimisu instead of a meal, climbing flights of stairs in frigid, foggy weather, and obnoxiously blowing bubbles in the drinks like children--this weekend past was assuredly the most transcendent Valentine's I've ever had. It was also my first year to ever have a date, and we played like we were grown-ups.