aurevoirlethe
it's very difficult to write about the word 'worthwhile'. don't think too hard if it's meaningful, or lasting. we couldn't get anything done if we stared too hard. one thing we can all agree on: 'worthwhile' is impossible to define.
don't allow the proliferation of possibilities to stilt your metamorphosis. "dear diary: I must take risks. I must not be afraid of failure." it is not in books or minds that you will find salvation - you must seek it in the everyday, the mundane, in relationship and in adventure. even hamlet had to act eventually, escape his own head and the sanctuary of his notebooks. "what is the matter, my lord?" "between whom?" between whom indeed.
who can blame them?
moon sliver silvered hung over long lakes, shadows cast passing over, bat wings and burnt stars. rook's head silhouette towered over coast rocks and a lighthouse lamp lit bruised, black clouds.
when I graduate, I keep wondering what it will be like to start over, unchristened, in a new place. no one will know me, no one will sell my secrets or trade whispers. no one will be happy to see me or have shared memories of our joy. it will be a fresh start
I was shaken to discover that I wasn't a single thing. That I was many, like pixels or a face in a broken mirror.
look around, and take in what surrounds. breathe in without haste, and allow the accumulated thoughts and feelings to escape on the way out. be present in your posture and in every moment, and relinquish everything else.
the constricting weight of others' heads. I'd seen a painting once where one man carried the smiling faces of others, but he bore a frown. it inspired sympathy until, as the reader turned the page, the man was letting all the frowning heads tumble from his arms with a smile on his face. which is worse, sadly bearing the weight of others' happiness or being happy at their expense? I can't recall the name of this painting.
sublime is hard to find. what, in a world well-traveled, springs up to surprise and delight us? it is more a matter of how we look than what we see. either we strive to have a child's eyes, or we let time wear down our capacity for wonder
the fates with twin scissors and single eye trimming quaintly the lines and lies of our lives. the three bears and their porridges hot, cold, and somewhere in-between. the three little pigs with the houses of straw, sticks, and bricks. god and his son and the ghost looming over primordial waters
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writing since 2015 · 23 entries · 17 days shown up
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