I feel like the word shatter.
It's cold outside. I guess really, it's just windy. My eyes are watering and my nose is burning, and I keep ignoring that in less than 2 hours I have a test in World Religions that I'm just not prepared for. Not in the slightest bit. I don't think it's fair that I should be tested by a man who presents such an interesting topic in the most boring way possible. It should be illegal for a man like that to teach. He has possibility to be entertaining, in small doses and small classes, but this is a rather large class and one of my longer ones. To give you an idea, it took him the first 4 or so class meetings to tell us how he was GOING to teach us, instead of actually teaching us. I haven't really learned anything, minus the visit to the Hindu temple here in Gville.
I realized on my way back to my dorm that I no longer cycle through our memories. I no longer sit on my bed and let our moments together play like some lost romantic independent film in my head. I don't let myself remember what it felt like to be with you. Because then I miss. And when I miss, I want. And when I want, I'm no longer content with what I have. I love what I have. But what is it about people, and writers especially, where they are never quite (completely) happy, they seem to always be wanting and searching for something else? The things that have seemed to make me most happy are those fleeting moments. The ones I knew even as they were occuring that they would not last forever, and it was as if with that knowledge I fell in love deeper with the very feeling, the very moment, the very action, the perfections or imperfections of that person or that place. If I know I could lose you, I will love you deeper. Maybe that's what I'm saying.
I'm tired. Time to go read.
I realized on my way back to my dorm that I no longer cycle through our memories. I no longer sit on my bed and let our moments together play like some lost romantic independent film in my head. I don't let myself remember what it felt like to be with you. Because then I miss. And when I miss, I want. And when I want, I'm no longer content with what I have. I love what I have. But what is it about people, and writers especially, where they are never quite (completely) happy, they seem to always be wanting and searching for something else? The things that have seemed to make me most happy are those fleeting moments. The ones I knew even as they were occuring that they would not last forever, and it was as if with that knowledge I fell in love deeper with the very feeling, the very moment, the very action, the perfections or imperfections of that person or that place. If I know I could lose you, I will love you deeper. Maybe that's what I'm saying.
I'm tired. Time to go read.