Have you ever noticed how some rain, and some music, while it’s playing or falling, is just the perfect reflection of some intrinsic thing in you? And in those moments you have no language to say why, but the world feels right – perhaps because it’s a rare moment in which you know for sure that you’re not alone.
Time passes so quickly. First a day has slipped by, and that’s no breaking news. Then a week has passed and you’ve hardly noticed the world turning – then a month, a season, a whole year goes by and in some ways it seems like only minutes. And suddenly, it’s coming up on seven years since the most important event of your life, and that number just can’t be right. It’s so long of a time, and yet so short. But even when it had only been a week since that event, it was too long. And no matter how much time has passed, it will seem like it’s been both more and less. Never does the actual passage of time feel accurate.
Oh, to be a cat. Fed every day by someone who pets you and snuggles you – if you want them to – able to explore all day, or just to sleep all day. If I were a cat, I would do little more than stand up, stretch and turn 180 degrees before lying down again to continue my nap. But it’s the leisure that I really envy. I could be just as nonchalant as any of these felines if I had as few worries as they do.
I wish that I knew, without trying, how to describe the sensation of tiredness in the eyes. Everyone knows the feeling, but few could actually describe it. There’s heaviness, a slight burn, and something else whose adjective/noun escapes me. There it is. Vaguely. But it’s a terrible description. If I were to come across someone who had never felt tired, and tried to explain what it felt like, I doubt it would result in their understanding.
A note to some contemporary writers, aspiring or published, who seem to have no sense of narrative at all: good writing =/= writing that is impossible to understand. If the readers don’t understand it isn’t because they aren’t as smart as you, it’s because you wrote for yourself (i.e. as your audience) instead of for anyone else. The rest of the world does not share your brain. True, some writers are just geniuses and it therefore can take multiple reads before you understand what they meant to convey (or what their writing conveys whether they meant it to or not), but I suspect that in most cases the writer is just being pretentiously, pointlessly enigmatic and no matter how many times you read it over, it will never become any clearer. Yes, I’m talking to you: STOP DOING THAT.