Inertia of the Mind

I was stalking myself, and I realized that we've been on blogger since 2011. 2011. It's almost 2014, now, and it's crazy how fast time has flown. Things I could've sworn I wrote last week are actually, somehow, last year's posts-my space-filling posts are now almost a year old. Yesterday's memories are last year's memories. And last year's memories, last century's. I never quite realized just how very old my old memories were. Thoughts of home now refer to a place which doesn't even really exist anymore. I've been through so much, and so little, and-everything is just so mind-boggling right now. It's like my train soundlessly moved ahead and passed a million stations while I kept my eyes shut and still thought myself at the first one.

And yes, I know three years isn't very long, but it's so very long, you know?

Time is weird.
~Sam

Peace and Poignance

Things are so poignant sometimes.
Simple things, daily things.
The leaf lying on the grey road,
Unremarkable, old,
And yet I want to take a picture.
The tilted bench against the brick house,
The grown puppy teetering around the door.
Nothing new.
All routine sights,
And yet, I want to capture them all.

-----

Just a mood.
When your mind is scattered,
Unfocused, adrift,
A certain sadness hanging,
In the dusty shelves that comprise it.
Just a mood.
When you can wander every-any direction,
Direct your steps here,
Then there, at anyone's beck,
And call.
Just a mood.
When you're peaceful,
Not worried, not thinking,
Just looking and seeing.
At one with the world.
At once away from it.

-----

Why is it associated with sadness,
That peace,
That comes with calm,
That comes with acceptance,
That comes but so rarely in our existence?
Why is it associated with sadness,
That emptiness,
That connection,
Which comes with nature,
Which drains and nurtures?
Why is it associated with sadness,
That bliss,
That emotion,
That for which we have no name.
That for which we have no name.


~Sam

I have a dream.

I have a dream of a world where men and women walk free without the threat of mosquitoes.

I have a dream of a world where dates and romantic walks are not ruined by pesky parasites.

I have a dream of a world where my children may sleep fearlessly and where their blood will not be drunk mercilessly each night.

I have a dream of a mosquito extermination army gone defunct for lack of mosquitoes.

I have a dream of a world where no blood is shed.

~Sam and the Christmas Cookie

The Difficulty of Explaining Something to Someone on the Outside

Well the title sort of says it all. I just finished reading The Devil Wears Prada (not a good idea, should've finished Lolita instead) and the main character, Andrea, talks about how her work life is so completely insulated from the outside world, and how no one on the outside can understand her, not even her best friend.
And that is so, so true. I highly doubt I'm the only person who relates with that. People keep asking me how life is, how things are going, how I like this and that, how I like my new place, and how do you explain? How do you possibly put all the feelings into words and explain them to someone who isn't there and will not be able to understand (and usually, who isn't even listening, which is just pissing off)? When you put something into words, it becomes so real, so understated, so..incomplete. Because you can't speak someone a blogpost giving them a complete picture of your life. Can't answer a "How are you?" with a thousand word reply of how, exactly, you are. You just say "Fine" and move on with life. Because even if you gave them the thousand words, they still wouldnt understand, wouldnt be there, in your place, feeling and seeing and being.
Much as I value words, they aren't the same as feelings, as participation, as presence.

~Sam

Why I Want the World to End In December

Because it would be SO COOL, to begin with.
Because I want to know what happens.
Because I want it to happen in my lifetime.
Because I don't want to die alone. I'm the girl who drags someone along with her everywhere she goes [reminds me of Harry's dilemma with Cho in the fourth book, harr harr], so yeah, I would prefer for a couple of billion people to accompany me on my final journey, too.
Because life sucks and then you die. [Had to say that.]
Because I want to know when I'm going to die so that I can plan the remainder of my life accordingly. Even a couple of weeks in advance would be fine. I don't like living in ambiguity (the irony, considering this is my natural state of existence), and how am I supposed to plan out my life if I don't even know how long I'm going to live for? [I have a post on this and I would link you to it but Í'm supposed to be working (surprise, surprise)].
Because I'm a last-minute-r. I've spent most of my life leaving things to the last minute, and I'd like this to happen when I'm relatively young so that when imminent death galvanizes me into finally living out my disproportionately long bucket list, I have the energy and the will to do so in a proper manner.
Because..other things which I don't have the time to articulate. Suffice to say, it is a long and convincing list.


~With a pinch of morbidity,
Sam 

Writer's envy, writer's dream.

That awful feeling.
When all you want to say, has already been said.
Said better than you could ever have said it.
Thought better than you could ever have thought.
Put better than you could ever have put.

When you wish you had been born earlier.
That you had spoken, written, thought, put faster.

And that feeling.
When what has been said, becomes what you wanted to say.
What has been thought, what you wanted to think.
What has been written, what you wanted to write.

When you wish that what you love had been yours.
Yours before you had read it, heard it, seen it.
That you had written it, thought it, felt it.
That you had brought it into the world.
That you owned it, because you had said it.


And then that feeling.
When you step back, and you look, and you admire, and you accept that it isn't yours.
And you love it all the more because it isn't.
And you strive all the more because it isn't.
And you hope-just hope-that one day.
One day, you can go from envying, to envied.
From loving, to loved.
From yearning, to yearned for.
From taking, to giving.
And that you can contribute, you can contribute, something, however little, to that brilliance out there.
That you can be on the other side.
The writer's side.


~Sam