(no subject)
When I was little I always felt that I had answers- granted, they weren't always the right ones, but they were there, written in primitive cursive on that special lined paper, and I miss being able to just write down the right answer and get on with it...I almost cried tonight, reading Garcia Marquez by lamplight on a bench next to Cameron and wishing just a little that I could just go home except that I don't really have "home" anymore in the sense of a house I know or remember- so I kept reading and feeling displaced and a little confused and still a little sorry for melodramatic words, for putting off my stats homework, for a lot of things, really...
...and I wish tonight, as I do a lot of nights, that could just grab His hand and run- through grass and mud and sand and life pretending it was all just stories and laughter and I would hold his hand as one holds onto a childhood daydream- as a grail- strange and sacred and, in one's mind and heart, beautifully and shamelessly attainable.
And so, like I did as a child, I rest my chin on my hand, and stare off into a space filled with dichotomy, with a future and a house sans memories, with degrees and with Him, and I wonder sometimes if I'll end up a forty-something lawyer still wondering why she hasn't changed the world yet...
...and I wish tonight, as I do a lot of nights, that could just grab His hand and run- through grass and mud and sand and life pretending it was all just stories and laughter and I would hold his hand as one holds onto a childhood daydream- as a grail- strange and sacred and, in one's mind and heart, beautifully and shamelessly attainable.
And so, like I did as a child, I rest my chin on my hand, and stare off into a space filled with dichotomy, with a future and a house sans memories, with degrees and with Him, and I wonder sometimes if I'll end up a forty-something lawyer still wondering why she hasn't changed the world yet...