(no subject)
Tonight, on my back porch, I listened to my mother tell me 5 hours worth of stories and adventures that she has gone through in her life.
I had to re-write that sentence 6 times, and it still doesn't sound right. It still doesn't show how incredible it was to listen to her reminisce about her youth.
She really isn't who I thought she was. And I respect her more for everything she's been through. Mostly because she came out of life exactly the way I want to. Well, except for the smoking and the location.
There's something about the July air that just seemed to make everything feel more alive, and beautiful, and worthwhile.
I realize how much time I have and how many stories I already have for whoever wants to listen in 26 years from now. But it's not enough, and I need more. I need to see more and feel more and want more.
Tonight, she passed on her wanderlust to me, because I've never really had it. But I don't want it just for locations. I want it for experiences and people and emotions.
She predicted that in 10 years, I will be married to an older man. She still hasn't decided if I'm going to have children or not. I haven't either. I asked her why she didn't see me as an independant career woman living in a fabulous city, and she said "You will do that. For a while."
And I laughed, because that's what I think too.
For someone who lives such a normal life, she has done some crazy, unethical, and shocking things. Now she has no secrets, and I want nothing more than to take everything I've done and store away my secrets, and then unlock them every once in a while to remember where I came from, and where I've been, and how even though life changes what you are, it will probably never change who you are.
Unless you let it.
And I don't think I will.
I never have.
we walked along the sloping street, where many feet fell in love before.
and we carried down, to the water. the privacy of the public dock. we read Plath and Paz
and flooded the air with O'Hara and Layton and Bukowski...
we were all in love. with the weathered wood beneath the piles of books, old and new.
with the sky that was that blue. that blue that can be described as what it's like to be in love.
the blue that fades so slowly. but too quickly into the black. but the black masks nothing and offers up what's behind it. the black that composes its own poetry and made us fall in love
with that night. we are still in love with the city in the distance, the buzz just out of our hands.
we are in love with that night
with what we are in the moment.
and the moments like this.
where nothing seems better.
it's enough.
who ever said it wasn't?
-Katie
I had to re-write that sentence 6 times, and it still doesn't sound right. It still doesn't show how incredible it was to listen to her reminisce about her youth.
She really isn't who I thought she was. And I respect her more for everything she's been through. Mostly because she came out of life exactly the way I want to. Well, except for the smoking and the location.
There's something about the July air that just seemed to make everything feel more alive, and beautiful, and worthwhile.
I realize how much time I have and how many stories I already have for whoever wants to listen in 26 years from now. But it's not enough, and I need more. I need to see more and feel more and want more.
Tonight, she passed on her wanderlust to me, because I've never really had it. But I don't want it just for locations. I want it for experiences and people and emotions.
She predicted that in 10 years, I will be married to an older man. She still hasn't decided if I'm going to have children or not. I haven't either. I asked her why she didn't see me as an independant career woman living in a fabulous city, and she said "You will do that. For a while."
And I laughed, because that's what I think too.
For someone who lives such a normal life, she has done some crazy, unethical, and shocking things. Now she has no secrets, and I want nothing more than to take everything I've done and store away my secrets, and then unlock them every once in a while to remember where I came from, and where I've been, and how even though life changes what you are, it will probably never change who you are.
Unless you let it.
And I don't think I will.
I never have.
we walked along the sloping street, where many feet fell in love before.
and we carried down, to the water. the privacy of the public dock. we read Plath and Paz
and flooded the air with O'Hara and Layton and Bukowski...
we were all in love. with the weathered wood beneath the piles of books, old and new.
with the sky that was that blue. that blue that can be described as what it's like to be in love.
the blue that fades so slowly. but too quickly into the black. but the black masks nothing and offers up what's behind it. the black that composes its own poetry and made us fall in love
with that night. we are still in love with the city in the distance, the buzz just out of our hands.
we are in love with that night
with what we are in the moment.
and the moments like this.
where nothing seems better.
it's enough.
who ever said it wasn't?
-Katie