:: monday ::

No, not shame on me for trusting you. Shame on you for wanting to deceive.

We are all given the same materials, yet some are building palaces among shacks and it's hard to walk by without noticing the royalty.

Translation: You are beautiful to me
And him. And her. And her.

:: que lastima pero adios ::

We talked about our dreams. It seemed appropriate since we were drinking tea and watching the sun disappear with more colors than we'd seen all day. We talked about letting our dreams go.

She told me about her friend, the one who just gave up everything he was working towards (and successful at) to be poor. He said it was like climbing up a mountain dragging a boulder behind him, only to decide steps away from the summit to let the rock go. He has no need for that weight; he plans to fly.

(So do I.)

We talked about our dreams. They're not stones, like his, not just compressed worthless matter. No. Ours are beautiful, and noble. They're the ones you let go of boulders to reach out for instead. Good dreams, mine. Ours. Don't Take Them Away.

(And we talked about letting go, because sometimes it matters not at all what you're holding on to but that you're holding on. And that you need to let go, noble or not. After all, only the best things are fit to be burned on the altar.)

...for S.M.S., whose legitimate needs lately have given mine the chance to shut up for once.

Could it be that I am not the center of my universe? Is it possible that what I orbit, or the fact that I circle it, holds more significance than my moon-matter-self? I get dizzy in my spinning, forgetting, thinking more about my course than about the oceans that I'm pulling.

But when I see you waiting, sandy-footed for the next wave to wash you, it doesn't matter that I'm round but that I'm around you. I may light the sky, once in a while, but you make my ordinary orbit make sense.

:: san diego ::

:: cruel ::

Sometimes when I'm falling asleep, I think of something I want to write down, something really good. I tell myself to remember it in the morning, then think about it in a few creative ways to be sure that I really don't forget.

The worst part is, I usually wake up remembering not what I was thinking but that I needed to not forget. Blast. It would be fine if I could remember the thought, or forget both the idea and the presence of the idea. But to remember only that I had some Pulitzer-prize-winning plot or world-changing philosophy that got lost in the middle of the night? That is just cruel.