I saw a quote, ''Always remember, someone's effort is a reflection of their interest in you.'' and I felt that shxt. :—(
The ash pile in the fireplace has grown cold,
white dust piled high, engulfing the iron grate,
and it brings me back to Mt. Saint Helens
and its corrosive belch decades ago.
I was a boy, and three thousand miles away,
but my uncle was a biologist working the slopes,
taking samples, doing something worthy of
government funding and university study.
And when the volcano smashed its pressure
into the sky, he was nearby, so they sent him
to the aftermath to calculate environmental
impact of the earth’s gastrointestinal reflux.
Like some geological social worker, he was
to assess the damage done after the eruption,
investigate the wreckage of what happens when
planet-meets-air, insides coming out.
And he was never the same after that, his insides
taking in the cost, inhaling the injury in so many
microscopic insults to his lungs, years later
reacquainting himself with innocent calamity.
Each cough a blast from the duties of his past,
and though I have not seen him in thirty years,
each time I watch the orange-hot coals of my
hearth crumbling into coals, I breathe his pain.
If you persistently seek validation from others, you will inadvertently invalidate your own self-worth.
Dodinsky
Most love stories are nocturnal. That's what makes them so fascinating.
Love yourself on your good days. Love yourself more on your bad days.
It’s Thursday, longing is being born, creating a war, between us.
It’s May, we are empty of love, we are drowning in sorrow.
It’s spring, today, rain no longer soaked us, we undress ourselves, of ourselves.
It’s 00:00, we are making love again, we are fighting for us again, we are heroes.
When you talk you are only repeating what you already know. But when you listen you may learn something new.
Unknown
It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it.
Charles Bukowski, Pulp
I don’t know how I can be so ambitious and so lazy at the same time.
Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story
Of this be sure: You do not find the happy life... you make it.
Thomas S. Monson
When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.
Rumi
The state of your life is nothing more than a reflection of the state of your mind.
Wayne W. Dyer
Love never dies of a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness, errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds. It dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings, but never of a natural death.
Anais Nin
Sift me through fields of amber,
drown me in petals of gold,
scorch me in layers of scarlet,
just don’t let me ever grow old.
Just one yawn, and I missed watching him exit the door. Now there's just a grey sky, maybe tinged a little blue if you really squinted, and there's a thin line of sea below - also grey, with a little blue.
He'd taken the hat near the door with him, which was good, but which I also felt bad about. If he'd forgotten it, at least I could see him one more time before he left. I'd shout after him, and he'd turn back from the staircase, hand on his absent-minded head, and retrieve the hat.
He wouldn't thank me, but well, he took the hat. Isn't that thanks enough?
We liked the flat because we both loved the sea. You can never go wrong with taking in the sea breeze. The apartment building looked a little sinister - tall, with many wings, all shaped like hard-edged pillars. There used to be plenty of people living there, and the contractor said that there would be even more coming soon, once the economy in the area picked up.
If you looked through the bedroom window now, you could see that three of the buildings had collapsed. The last collapse was three days ago.
When my husband returned from work, he set his hat down and took his coat off. I produced a glass of water for him, and he drank it all down. It's the small things like that - that's how he thanks me.
I asked him if he had any luck looking for a new flat. He shook his head and handed the glass back to me. After he'd caught his breath a little (having climbed seventeen floors, because the lift was broken), he let out a big yawn.
"Did you look?" I asked.
He shot a stern look at me. "Do you think I get paid to look for flats? I'll go see on the weekend."
I nodded. He won't apologise, but he looked away from me. That should be apology enough.
I turned the television on for him. I asked him what channel he'd like to watch, and he waved his hand dismissively, so I put it on the third channel (of three), which had a variety show going.
I cut carrots and spring onions on the chopping board while we watched, until he snapped at me and told me to do the cutting sometime earlier in the day, not when he needs his peace and quiet.
The television roared with laughter.
"I had other things to do in the day," I said.
"Of course." He looked tired and disgusted. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the coat and left to watch the sea from the corridor outside the flat.
I cut the vegetables.
That night, while the crashing of the waves lulled both of us to sleep (some of us quicker than others), I watched the still ceiling fan, and I wondered how this building was going to collapse. Will one side fall before the other? Will the pieces come straight down on us, or will they tilt as they fall, piercing us with sharp edges and breaking skin?
My husband snored. I wondered if I should turn the fan on. He always complained that it was a waste of electricity when we had so much sea breeze coming through the windows. The curtains were straight and still, though, and the moon was hiding behind clouds.
I decided to respect his wishes. No fan. What if it's the last time I see him? It's best to respect people while they're still alive.
The next day, I did my best not to yawn. I popped open the pods, pulled the peas out of their homes. My husband polished his boots and he tried to hum. When he got up, he stretched, which I didn't like, because it would crease his shirt and jacket. I'd ironed them only half an hour before that.
No yawning. I had to take him in before he left. It could be the last time I saw him. One of these days, it was definitely going to be it.
What would he do, when he came back to find that his building had collapsed, burying his wife underneath the rubble? He'd want to put his hat and coat away and kick his feet up and watch television, and instead he'd have to go back the way he came, back to town, and maybe sleep on a bench at the station. He'd have to return to the big city and find relatives, find a new job, a new place to stay.
Once again, I looked up. The fan was still off. I will turn it on after he goes, I thought - but he wasn't in the room any more. I put down the peas and walked out of the door, and I caught a glimpse of him as he turned for the staircase, going down the seventeen floors.
I'd missed him, again. And all for what? A fan? A fantasy? I didn't even know what I had been doing when he left. I'll have to actually pay attention next time.
In the bedroom, I try to read a magazine, but I keep getting distracted by the window. There was no sky through that window before. One of the wings of the building blocked it off. You could see women hanging clothes out, and sometimes I waved at them. They waved back. We smiled, smudges in different hives. I wished I had their telephone numbers. Not that it would have done us any good after their building collapsed.
I read the words in the magazine, but my thoughts kept spinning out. I wondered if the women in the other building were still buried there in the rubble, or if they'd been outside when the collapse happened. Maybe they survived, even. Would I survive? Seventeen floors - doesn't seem possible. Is it more dangerous to live on a lower floor or a higher floor when a building collapses?
In the bathroom, I noticed that a crack on the ceiling had grown a little wider. I shook my head. It would be especially bad to have a building collapse while you were showering. Can you imagine being found in the rubble naked and with dust sticking all over your body? I kept my showers short.
When it was the weekend, I urged my husband to look for a new flat. There's got to be real estate agents in the town. There's got to be good places.
There's a lot of things that he said.
"The commute would be too long."
"There's no other buildings."
"We won't find a flat as spacious as this one."
"Let me be. Don't I deserve at least a couple of days to myself?"
"If you're so worked up about it, why don't you go look for an agent?"
It took a few weeks, but the idea did germinate in my head. Maybe I could go see an agent myself. I may not have the money to make the deal, but surely I could figure out everything else myself.
So I put my hat on, I slid my purse up my shoulder, and I glanced at him - cigarette in mouth, towel around his waist, retreating to the bathroom with the crack on the ceiling.
On the other side from the flat's front door, the sea smashed against land. Inside, the breeze lifted curtains. The bathroom door slammed shut and was locked from the inside.
It could be the last time I see him, I thought.
I’m not afraid of darkness, If there’s anyone I am the one to let the demons in; But we won’t be friends, I don’t befriend, I will lie to you, I will deceive.
You could bring both hell and heaven To reside under this roof, in this room, I still won’t believe; We could hide under the same bed, Battle forever inside these walls, I’d let you win.
I’d let you run my life for me, The game is over, I'm tired of being good; I saw death, I walked through fire And I still don’t fear anything Like I fear me.
~ A. A. Roman
TW: Gun violence
On a typical morning you wake up your kids to get ready for school. Some spring out of bed, excited to learn and see they're friends Some groan, wanting to stay cozy in bed just a little bit longer
You tell them it'll be there for them when they get home.
They pour their favorite cereal in a bowl You scramble them some eggs, get some protein in them. You hug them and wave as they get on the school bus You hug them as you drop them off on your way to work
They tell you they can’t wait to see you later and tell you about their day.
On a typical afternoon children say thank you to their teachers, wave goodbye to some of their friends, and laugh with those on the same bus route home
Everyone says, “See you tomorrow!”
In a typical world children wouldn’t worry about guns, hiding under desks, or being traumatized in a place that’s supposed to be safe
On a typical day all of the children come home.
– Typical Day // h.w
