Omg! Is it? Are they? Doing something that requires physical movement?
in our defense, it would be sacrilege to actually try and sing with bellamy's flutt'ry passion and it's probably a lot more fun from our side of the river, and it's more interesting than, say, catching us at Quickly's.
sadly you know you're getting older when you're sighing from relief after... a minute of dancing
At some auspicious hour a perfect baby arrived on Earth on December 17. Some say she took her first taste of food from a cookie, fresh from the oven, and that her first words were, "neesd white choklet hershee kiss". Just a story? I think not.
As I listen to the echoes of my boots in the dim, empty streets, I think of how there is something that I love about the East Coast. California is a dream, but I have always fought to plant myself in reality. The harshness of the cold, the cling of the summer. All those pillars and red autumn leaves.
It always feels like there are two sides warring inside of me. There is the part of me that knows life is a gift, and that I am lucky to be alive, even if I did not choose it. Because life is beautiful, and because we only get to live it once, I want to make every day the very best it can be. I always try. The other part of me is more bleak. Why bother? Why try? What if nothing will ever satisfy me? (I am saying this according to my personal beliefs.) One of the greatest existentialist crises is that is that we did not choose to be born, and the necessity and process of defining our own meanings in life leaves us lost. I am lost.
That we can choose our own meaning of life is both liberating and debilitating. Life is what I shape it to be, but how do I know what I choose as my meaning will make me happy? How can I tell that it is the right, the best decision to make? My friend said to me: "It's called picking something, and not looking back."
True. But that doesn't make it any easier or make me any happier. It does nothing to quell the conflict of my insides, and each day is a battle.
As I wrote in my last post: everything I have achieved, I worked for it. Literally, my blood, sweat, and tears have gone into everything that I have done. And it makes it bigger, better, brighter, more real, that much sweeter - not easier.
But how could I ever forgive myself, if I did not try?
To borrow a line from the song the inimitable j. just posted: Oh it's not fun to be so blind To be so blind
