(no subject)
I am better, and I thank you all for your concern. I have recovered, I am back to 100%. My mind is once again clear and able, my tongue no longer stumbles over language, I no longer need to clutch the banister to descend the stairs.
I will go to India at the end of this month, it has been decided. One thing that migraines have taught me is that my life is a fragile thing, a breath away from dissolution. I have no confidence that it will continue on as I've known it in the past. And so I live it at a frantic pace, trying to fit everything in now, because I am never sure if there will be a later. I have a friend who wishes to go to India with me . . . and while I would like to go with her, I can't wait.
I can't wait, because I am never certain that tomorrow will come for me.
But perhaps because of this, I also notice the world around me, and appreciate it in ways that I think people often forget. I watch clouds cross the sky in wonder, awed at the thought that they are water, floating suspended in whisps the size of entire prefectures. I enjoy my food, the contrast in texture between barley and rice, the bitterness of beer and the sweet graininess of black sesame. The scent of Japanese cypress on my bike ride this morning . . . the wind in my face . . . the joy of lacing up my new sneakers with red . . . walking through the hillside graveyard . . . holding a conversation entirely in meows with my cat . . . the feeling of intense well-being when I play a hankyoku piece on my shakuhachi . . . kneeling supple and easy on a tatami floor . . .
And I give compliments, freely and sincerely. If I think you're cool, I will tell you so; if I think you look nice, I will have no reservation about saying it; if you say something witty I will express my admiration; if I love you I will say it and you will laugh nervously because you don't believe me. That's fine, but I have to say it now because for me every time is the last time I'll ever see you.
I wish more than anything that I could communicate these feelings to the world, that I could share joy and discovery and wonder with someone else. But we are not built for it, we humans, we are not made to commune with one another. And this helpless and impossible love will remain, far too big for my life to contain, lonely and speechless and forever flowing over.
Where I Am With You, by Ryan Vine
Waking from a nap,
we stand at the window
watching dark clouds crawl
across the sky, whip
state-sized wisps
down and out and up.
Lights come on early,
and people below
on the street scurry
and bumble about
My arm around you, you say-
Let it rain, let it pour.
I will go to India at the end of this month, it has been decided. One thing that migraines have taught me is that my life is a fragile thing, a breath away from dissolution. I have no confidence that it will continue on as I've known it in the past. And so I live it at a frantic pace, trying to fit everything in now, because I am never sure if there will be a later. I have a friend who wishes to go to India with me . . . and while I would like to go with her, I can't wait.
I can't wait, because I am never certain that tomorrow will come for me.
But perhaps because of this, I also notice the world around me, and appreciate it in ways that I think people often forget. I watch clouds cross the sky in wonder, awed at the thought that they are water, floating suspended in whisps the size of entire prefectures. I enjoy my food, the contrast in texture between barley and rice, the bitterness of beer and the sweet graininess of black sesame. The scent of Japanese cypress on my bike ride this morning . . . the wind in my face . . . the joy of lacing up my new sneakers with red . . . walking through the hillside graveyard . . . holding a conversation entirely in meows with my cat . . . the feeling of intense well-being when I play a hankyoku piece on my shakuhachi . . . kneeling supple and easy on a tatami floor . . .
And I give compliments, freely and sincerely. If I think you're cool, I will tell you so; if I think you look nice, I will have no reservation about saying it; if you say something witty I will express my admiration; if I love you I will say it and you will laugh nervously because you don't believe me. That's fine, but I have to say it now because for me every time is the last time I'll ever see you.
I wish more than anything that I could communicate these feelings to the world, that I could share joy and discovery and wonder with someone else. But we are not built for it, we humans, we are not made to commune with one another. And this helpless and impossible love will remain, far too big for my life to contain, lonely and speechless and forever flowing over.
Where I Am With You, by Ryan Vine
Waking from a nap,
we stand at the window
watching dark clouds crawl
across the sky, whip
state-sized wisps
down and out and up.
Lights come on early,
and people below
on the street scurry
and bumble about
My arm around you, you say-
Let it rain, let it pour.