I need to learn the sound of my own voice, and how to take comfort in it. After all, it has grown up with me. I need to remember that the world keeps spinning around me, but that doesn’t mean it won’t stop for me one day, when we’re both ready.
I love fascination, especially when it’s in little things. Happiness, even in it’s simplest form, makes people so beautiful. I find those who take joy in the smallest of happenings to be the most complex, and I wonder how they do it. Could they teach me to smile as they do?
It perplexes me that people always remember the saying about a lonely tree in a forest who breaks and crashes and falls with no one around to help, but no one can remember that it’s much more likely to happen to a person rather than vegetation. Why do people mention how fast time flies when fun is being had, but no one seems to notice how an expiration date comes so much faster once you’ve bought the product?
I love when people write about love in usual ways. I love reading about laughter shared at gas pumps, whispers in the cereal aisle, and tampons being passed between stalls. How basic and human this type of love is. Why do we need rain and pain and cliches to say that we feel love? Why is mundane, normal, boring love considered so unusual?
I love run-on sentences. I can see perfectly a map of someone’s thoughts - how it began, how it was going to end, and the moment the mind springs into action spitting out more to put down. I can see passion in these sentences. No one can resist ink’s kiss to paper whether writing or reading. Fragments, like life, are dear to me, too. So much is left to discover, to create.
I hate forgetting my dad’s voice. I’ve done it twice, now, but this time I’ve gotten too far into healing to listen to the voicemails I’ve saved. I hated how he’d grab my big toe when it poked out from beneath the covers - his version of an alarm clock because he never could understand technology. I hated how he would poke my ribcage whenever he felt like I wasn’t paying attention. I hate how he was usually right. I hate how I’d yell for him to stop, and he’d laugh, and do it again because he could remember a time before I was born when his hands and arms had no use to him as a result of an accident that left him paralyzed for years and eventually made him into a miracle.
I hate how I couldn’t stop seeing him in Hans Hubermann in The Book Thief. I hate how I sought comfort in those pages leaving myself open to forget that he wasn’t napping in his easy chair in the next room. I hate how I can never remember to capitalize the word “his” when referring to God, but whenever I refer to my dad my hand naturally moves to form a perfect, capital “H.” That says something about me; I know it does. Most of all, I hate that all he is now to the world is past tense.
I can feel myself beginning to explode. Not in that beautiful way that supernovas do, creating pretty lights and sparking a child’s interest in astronomy. I am the type of explosion that kills and burns and takes entire towns of people - lives, innocence - with me into a void misplaced. The only thing left once the ashes are swept away by the palm of His hand is nothingness and words that used to mean something.