How when you are reading, whether it be a short-story or a novel, or even an article in a newspaper or magazine, how the subject matter can trigger rarely-before-thought-of memories? I’m reading The Ocean At The End Of The Lane by Neil Gaimon, and the story is shaking free a boatload of memories that I have not given thought to in decades. I have the overwhelming urge to sit down with pen and paper and write these memories done for posterity, but I doubt anyone besides myself and maybe my family members would want to read the story. Oh well, it might be nice to get it out of my head, even if no one else reads it.
Rather than about me, how about things I like? Monty Python, musicals, pretty much all music (except Rap and Hip Hop Pop shit), drawing, doodling, the way babies smell when they've just had a bath, fresh brewed coffee, quality teas, orange blossom honey, hard peaches, crisp, sweet apples, thunderstorms, Stephen King, The Dark Tower, Carl Sagan, Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, George RR Martin, making greeting cards, painting birdhouses, knitting, laughing, jumping in puddles and playing in the rain.Ask me anything
Do you have someone (or maybe more than one someone) in your life, whenever you hear them say, “I love you”, you want to gag, because you know they’re lying through their teeth, and only saying it because they are supposed to? Whether it’s a relative or a friend, or maybe even a coworker, that part really doesn’t matter; it’s that you just know, somewhere deep inside (and in some cases, you don’t have to go very deep) that they are full of it and are only saying “I love you” to appease whatever god or conscience to whom they feel obligated. Why do people do that? Why do we have to lie to each other to make ourselves feel good? Does it make you feel good, knowing that even as you say the words, what you’re really thinking (and more importantly, feeling) is that you really can’t stand the person?
Or is it just me?
When we are young, our birthday is a day of wonder, excitement, and joyousness, if we are lucky enough to be born into a family that loves the fact that we are alive. When we get older, the day becomes just another day, an unnecessary, unwelcome reminder that you are growing older. I’m turning 39 as of tomorrow evening, around 8:50pmish. I am surprisingly ambivalent about this event. Should I be excited? Should I be saddened by the large number? Should I be ecstatic that I’ve actually made it this far? I really don’t know; all I really do know, is that I’m just kinda meh about the whole damn thing.
I’ve recently realized how much of my life has been lived sitting down, and how incredibly sad that makes me. As I inch closer to my next birthday, I’ve started focusing on the things I want to do with the rest of my life. One of those things is most definitely NOT sitting down.