We’re sitting in the rain, and we’re feeling like the weather
For you to grow up
And daring. This is the first step towards everything I really want some day. I may not kill it, but I’m sure as hell going to try.
Dude. 10 years old.
It’s so calm, we’ve been in this little tiny apartment all night. It’s so clean, too. But I can’t catch my breath.
I sort of figured this is how it might play out. A year later, she says, nothing has changed…She hasn’t moved on. I disagree. Everything has changed. How do you gauge moving on? I say she’s gotten through. We’ve grown so much, the two of us have. Together, separate, we’ve built new relationships and friendships. Semesters have ended, begun, and ended.
It’s the sadness. The overwhelming cloud that has yet to clear. I wish I knew some remedy for that pain, but it is so unbeknownst and foreign to me. I’m so sad to see it’s effect.
One year. What a daunting idea.
Ronit Bigal, Body Scripture II, (2010).
Tonight is for Iz and for Avi. I am so thankful for the love I feel from everyone around me, and I wish nothing but the absolute best for all of them. Life is good.
In a little under an hour. Calculations and footnotes, footnotes on those footnotes. I have an incredible inability to stop the rushing river of observations, a flow-of-consciousness rapid enough to drown a fish. Everything. I can’t stop thinking.
I think about how I’m going to make enough money. Enough money to do what exactly, I don’t know. I think about losing weight, how I don’t care about my weight, how all I want to do is lose weight. I think about my friends and what they’re dealing with, about the pace at which they’re walking up that infinite incline, how we’re all making it work. Everyone is fighting and losing and winning and still fighting and it’s sad. I think about him, a lot. Why we are the way we are and how much we’ve improved and how we still have so far to go. And I think about how its so worth it and not worth it at all. I think about the lack of calm in my life, except for him and that bed and his arms and how all that I want to do is stay in bed and hide.
Nora Roberts, The Witness
Submitted by n4ff.
The words were jumbled, partially heard, partially lost amongst the strobes lights, the bass, the fun. But I caught half of it. And maybe you didn’t mean it in the grand scheme of things. Maybe in the hustle and bustle pace of each week… it still doesn’t make sense, that maybe it won’t make sense.
But in those hours of sweating and smiling and stealing kisses that ain’t never tasted so sweet, I felt it. And in those hours, it made sense, and you meant it.