Sometimes, silence is comforting. We slip into silence, and instead of being unsure, I am content.
I went to church today, to celebrate Ash Wednesday. I look around, and there are old people, hunched and frail, helped by their adult children or helpers as they make their way to the minister to get blessed with ash; I wonder what I'd be like when I'm old and grey, what would the world look like, what would become of my life. I also see babies playing, crying, chuckling, drooling; and I wonder what it would be like to have one of those; a person whose life is absolutely dependent on you. I find that the thought is very, very daunting.
Little hearts can go a long way.
Winning the radio lottery. Seeing a gap-toothed old man break out in a wide grin. Someone making the effort to cheer you up even when you're being unreasonable. Your puppy wriggling excitedly upon hearing your car in the driveway. A friendly crew behind the counter. Your favorite song, playing when you get in the bus. Small joys, bits of happiness, they pile up and bring in the sunshine.
I'm glad I'm yours. There's no one else I'd want to dream of at night.
You asked me if I think you're a hopeless romantic. And I said, knowing what I know about you, that you aren't, because for the most part, you know who you are, you know what you want, and you know how you're gonna get it. Mulling the topic over, I've come to the conclusion that I'm the hopeless romantic. In the end, I still believe that life will conquer all, and love will save the day. Stupid, idealistic, naive, yes, but that's the hopeless romantic in me talking. It is there, guarded by a thick enough wall of confusion and sadness.
Please give me something to care about. Anything.
I saw a motorcycle accident on my way to work today. The two bikes were left sprawled in the middle of the road, their owners missing from the scene. Perhaps in the hospital, getting their stitches; perhaps in the police station, screaming that it was the other's fault; perhaps in a bar, having a bottle of beer over small talk. Perhaps.
When you get in a funk, and you just don't know what to do to get out of it, what else is there to do but wallow?
There's a flavor I'm currently craving for. It's been nagging at me since early this morning, and I can imagine what it smells like, but I can't seem to pinpoint what and where this smell comes from. Now that I'm purposely trying to figure out what that imaginary smell is, I think what I'm looking for is the sweet, crunchy bits from Red Ribbon's Coffee Crumble, or that snowy cake from Becky's Kitchen. Yea, just the crunchy bits. I'm weird.
Memories haunt us, thrill us, taunt us. But they will always stay there, boxed forever in time.
I remember speaking at my grandmother's wake, telling everyone the story of how I dreamt of her the night before she died, on the eve of my birthday. I remember breaking down in front of the crowd, her ashes in a jar beside me. Also, I remember my grandfather. In his study, I learned the words that I still live by, to this day. He told me that it didn't matter if you weren't so rich, so long as you don't have enemies, so long as you don't step on others, so long as you are loved by people, so long as you live your dreams. I'll remember forever.
When I need comforting, should I still be the one to comfort you?
I often have trouble getting my point across. I'm a jumble of thoughts. A mess of ideas. My words, they don't make sense as a whole most of the time, just like this post, but when you take them bit by bit, some of them might actually mean something.
Will you be my glue, and help me hold my pieces together?