I am stealing words from my sister today, words she posted elsewhere and words that I want to post here. For the record.
Some make their worlds without knowing it. Their universes are just sesame seeds and three-day weekends and dial tones and skinned knees and physics and driftwood and emerald earrings and books dropped in bathtubs and holes in guitars and plastic and empathy and hardwood and heavy water and high black stockings and the history of the Vikings and brass and obsolescence and burnt hair and collapsed souffles and the impossibility of not falling in love in an art museum with the person standing next to you looking at the same painting and all the other things that just happen and are.jonathan safran foer | a convergence of birds
I like this for just about a million different reasons but mostly because it feels extremely loud and incredibly close to something somewhat murky that I’ve been recently feeling and so that was helpful, having words. And lately my universe is just a tablespoon of ground cloves and sudden snowstorms and flat tires and tea and essays and vague but persistent migraines and campus and home and listening and hair twisted up into a high bun and post-it notes and micron pens and night skies and the development of the Avant Garde and possible karma and editorials and sandwiches and the green light blinking across the lake, which I think about ironically as I sit on the dock with one bare foot over the side and into the water like one small boat against the current. My sister said we are living our lives and sometimes we forget that.
I want to be better at remembering.