songofseven
I think about moving almost every single day. Where we will move to. If we'll be okay. What life will be like once we've moved. But then I think that once I've moved, I will look back and wonder why I couldn't think a little more about this time I had to be still and wonder why I filled all these peaceful hours with thoughts of moving. I think I will miss the stillness.
Sometimes I just want to sleep for the duration of winter. Other times, I regret having to sleep at all, wishing instead that I could blaze like a comet, moving from thought to thought, task to task, creating, building, loving, living. My tail touching a creative spark just as it's about to fizzle out and reigniting to paint, and breathe, and dance, and zip again. Then, I think about sleep and peace and dreams and rest and how they rejuvenate, restore, and inspire, and I realize that winter is long and there is time to blaze and time to rest and both are needed for creation.
All the wealth in the world couldn't buy him the one thing he truly desired: love and tenderheartedness. It could by him sex, and booze, and pretty porn stars to keep him company for an hour, or six, a day, or a week, but it couldn't buy him real love. The loss, however, was not that what he so wanted, and needed, couldn't be bought, it was that thought wealth was his only hope of attaining these things. Had he been poor, he would have had no choice, but to lead with his heart, nothing more, or less than himself, and over time, he would have come to know that he was a good man, a worthy man, his wealth was himself and that was enough.
The woman in the butterfly scarf shifts impatiently from foot to foot as the checkout girl punches buttons and meets her gaze long enough to inquire about her well being. "How are you doing today, Ma'am?" "Oh better than normal," she says placing a stack of tuna six cans high on the conveyor belt. I watch she scurries out with the bag boy, scanning the cart one last time, placing one hand gently on the 18-count extra large egg carton that rests just on top and to the side of everything else. I wish silently for her that her "normal" days would hold just a little more joy, a little more wonder, so that the better than normal ones would be the rule and not just the exception.
Having lived in Florida and Hawaii, I've seen so many beautiful sunsets, but I never realized how truly breathtaking they were until you were gone, and every sunset that followed fell just a little short of all the ones that came before.
We augment our societal worth by adding initials after our names, fancy titles, awards, more zeros after the dollar sign, but we have only added temporarily, for we cannot augment time with any extra that will make it grow, make it expand, make it more than what we are already given, unless we add to the worth of those that will be here after us. Love augments life.
I remember that there was a gifted program in Junior High. I also remember that I wasn't selected for it. That is all I remember about the gifted program.
My grief, initially, is loud like symbols crashing, later it quiets some, reverberating in waves, the ringing of which I still hear and feel in my soul, even though it's been years. My grief doesn't lessen with time, it merely quiets until I bump into a strong memory of you and the symbols clang once again and I crash into madness, into tears, into laughter, into smiles, into song: into all the beauty and the broken that was and still is your life and mine.
"Sometime," I said. "I will do it sometime." It could have been done some time ago, if I hadn't wasted some time, waiting for sometime.
I might not have anything to say today, but still I might write anyway.
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