NITAI

When I get quiet enough, it lands.
Not magic. Not greatness. Just something honest.

Sometimes it writes.
Sometimes it prays.
Sometimes it just stares at the sky and smiles,
then turns the mess into music

and asks:

What would life sound like if I became an instrument?
The mind as strings.
The voice as woodwind.
The heart as percussion.
Brass in the belly.
Keys tuned to A, T, G, C.

Life becomes a harmony
where grief meets grace,
questions become doorways,
and seeking to become something
softens into a fascination
with what has always been.

Not a cello, a flute, or a tuba,
just a guy with a pen,
writing things down
before they disappear.

So if you’re here, welcome.
To yet another place to wander,
fall apart,
get drunk on the mystery.

And if love decides to speak,
an opportunity to hold it
like it owes us nothing.