or maybe twice before.
Nonetheless, it's here again;
it's knocking at my door.
Today I've witnessed beauty,
and Death, and loss as well.
Words are bursting at my seams
and this is my attempt to tell.
I tried to take a bath, but was bombarded with thoughts. It's hard to relax when all the people inside my brain are running around trying to get their paperwork in order (I got that from SpongeBob), and so this is my outlet. Nice to see your face once again.
It began with a simple quote that happened across my mind:
Your life is an occasion. Rise to it.And then I started to think about an Emily Dickinson poem that I read today, about life and grief. It's probably my favorite that I've read by her. And that's a lot saying that I just completed reading 100+ of her poems over Christmas break. I shall post near the end here.
- Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium
If you haven't noticed, the people in my brain are still struggling to get that paperwork in order.
And this is about the infamous you.
I didn't lie to you today. I really didn't let the "cat out of the bag," as you would call it. I understand why you might have thought that. It fits the description. But know now that I didn't. I owe you more than to be "that guy." Like what I've done in that past. Yeah, so no, don't worry, she's still in the dark about such things.
I'm glad you didn't ask what that writing actually was about, though. Because I might not have been able to tell you that. =) Don't fret, though. It's all good stuff.
While we're on you, I have another thing on my mind.
First of all, I'd like to thank you. For reasons left unsaid.
Secondly, I'm glad that we haven't had one of our famous fights in awhile. I hope they stay in the shadows. They displease me greatly.
And thirdly, today you told me that you only tell me "about 60% of [your] true thoughts on stuff like that." That was all fine when I read it, but afterwards it kind of poked at my brain a bit. It probably caught one of those filing cabinets on fire. And so now I'm really, really curious -- wait, no. Not even curious, it's more than that. Probably a word that my Vocabulary General isn't accustomed to. At any rate, I would really like to find out what it's like to hear 100% of your true thoughts on things like that, and on things like ... like everything.
How many other topics am I only getting 60% of?
And though I know it's probably for a reason, like I said, it poked at my brain. But if we're being truly, undeniably honest, you usually get about 75% of the truth from me. On things like that. And of other natures.
Today I watched the ending of Saving Private Ryan for the first time.
When I got home, I watched an online article of a boy, a victim of a flood, tell the rescuers to save his brother instead. After that, he was swept away by the waters.
And that's when it hit me -- that although this world is devastated by terror and ugly occurrences, beauty still exists. It's sometimes small, but it can break hearts and move mountains.
The important thing is that it exists.
A gave you a truth, and so it was. Although it was a milder version of what I really feel. I've been told that there are two sides to every story. That, I believe. Similarly, there are two scenarios to this story. Two possible outcomes. It could 1) Be false hope that I made up solely to be able to live a brighter day. Or 2) All those small things mean something and basically, it's real.
And although this blog is all about being real, my gut is against the latter.
I've said it before:
I'm haunted by hands.
To wrap this up, I'll post the poem that I promised earlier.
I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled--
Some thousands--on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies,
Death is but one and comes but once
And only nails the eyes.
There's grief of want, and grief of cold,
A sort they call 'despair,'
There's banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross
Of those that stand alone
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.