So in case you haven't noticed I've been posting a lot this week. I write when I have down time and I have had quite a lot recently. It's a way for me to turn laziness into productivity and also sometimes acts as a stress relief activity too. Walking back from my lunch with little dude today I started looking at everyone I passed on the streets and thought how interesting it would be if I knew them all. I have a made the decision to meet someone new everyday. Whether it's someone I pass on the street or in a hallway or maybe at a restaurant or something i plan to introduce myself to at least one stranger per day from now on. I decided a while back that I wanted to give one person a story to tell at dinner everyday and somehow never followed through with that either. In case that needs explaining I wanted a complete stranger to go home and when they are eating dinner with their family say, "Something interesting happened today. I was driving home from work and I saw this girl..." the girl of course being me. So maybe by meeting someone new I will also give them a story to tell as well. I don't know how my vision gets so blurred sometimes. I lose sight of things that I thought were important to me and suddenly I realize I've let myself down and I know that if I let myself down I've let everyone else down too. I really like having the time to write again even it is boring occasionally. I think we all need our down time to stay sane or in my case to keep from getting more insane. I dunno... I really want to throw in some crazy quote that'll make you laugh but it's not that simple. It would have to be perfect and I don't really believe in perfection. I believe in imperfection; that imperfections are what make things and people their absolute best. Now whoever can tell me the name of this poem, who it's by, and what line is my favorite will get... um.... well you'll be totally awesome and amazing!
That which then was ours, my love,
don't ask me for that love again.
The world then was gold, burnished with light --
and only because of you. That's what I had believed.
How could one weep for sorrows other than yours?
How could one have any sorrow but the one you gave?
So what were these protests, these rumors of injustice?
A glimpse of your face was evidence of springtime.
The sky, wherever I looked, was nothing but your eyes.
If You'd fall into my arms, Fate would be helpless.
All this I'd thought, all this I'd believed.
But there were other sorrows, comforts other than love.
The rich had cast their spell on history:
dark centuries had been embroidered on brocades and silks.
Bitter threads began to unravel before me
as I went into alleys and in open markets
saw bodies plastered with ash, bathed in blood.
I saw them sold and bought, again and again.
This too deserves attention. I can't help but look back
when I return from those alleys --what should one do?
And you still are so ravishing --what should I do?
There are other sorrows in this world,
comforts other than love.
Don't ask me, my love, for that love again.
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