I can see a fireside turn blue.

A painting unframed: dries and crinkles. And so...
Sometimes it is necessary to press-out the edges, flatten the spaces,
before putting it all away.
Or else, know that the decay will come,
and the colors will fade, and say goodbye.
Let nature eat up the remains.
These days I am flattening what I can, and relinquishing the rest.
I give them up to the burden of measurable time.

Paintings of people I love.
Ideas of people I thought I would love.

People I could not keep.
I hear them decreasing in the distance.
You are my wrinkled paintings.

...

I am lying with my book upstairs. That’s right, the upstairs apartment.
I look at the oppressively rectangular off-white curtains and feel their
oblique isolation—attached to that clinky metallic rod which
makes no statement whatsoever, except to be blank and uninviting.
I hate these curtains, and yet, feel bad for them.
I want to wake them up— I imagine myself attempting to do this, sharpie in hand, scrawling out all my questions onto the folds of ancient linen.
What are his intentions?
Why does the night ache?
Will I ever write a page that completes my pulse?
And why, why do people nuzzle in the library?
There are more questions, but you know…
...its not like I’d post my whole soul online.
I say this as a joke, because some kids think I do that.
Guess what though—there’s still a ton of pages concealed in my journ.
That’s right, not virtual pages—paper ones.
Ink. Paste. Spelling Errors.
Words you haven’t seen.
Maybe about you.
Oooooooo.

And now, if you're still here... Time for blurbs. These days I scribble on napkins and calendars and torn out syllabus-margins.
Recently, I cleaned them out of my purse and my room.
Here's a couple things I had to say on days before Friday.

Last Thursday
the washing machine knob signaled that it was on RINSE.
I opened the lid, what does rinse look like?
Then, I saw it. I saw the deep rinse.
I lower my head down to smell the clear water.
A minute or so later, I open my eyes... realize that I am not floating in Lake Mo.
This is not a mountain spring.
Already my mind has run away from the kitchen.
Hi. I stick my face in washing machines,
and get lost in summer fantasy.

Sunday
a three ring binder was passed to me.
I opened to a page where there was a space for my name.
LYNDSI SHAE BROWN.
Next are four columns: SPRING. SUMMER. FALL. WINTER.
This is the part where they keep track of me:
Where will you be? Will you be here?
Everyone always wants to know.
Usually, I'm wishin for the answer
much harder than the relief society binder is.
But not on Sunday.
No further soul-searching required.
I answer with four stars, which translates to YES YES YES YES.
No MAYBE.
No ? ? ?!
Just clarity. Stability. I will be here.
When does that ever happen?
This paper, in its many different forms,
has found me millions of times since I came to college.
Never have I stared it down with such surety of mind.
And still, why am I sure?
No idea. But I am. I am sure.
I am here.

Monday
Today, I am thankful.
I am empowered by my twenty minutes of scripture study.
I had to do this for a Mission Prep paper, otherwise
I know I would have kept rushing through the surface of the day.
Instead, I stop, breathe, think, write.
I feel the relief of my spirit.
I am alive.
Where have I been?