There are certain people you meet in your life that are just supposed to be there. Like it was decided, by the cosmos or something, that you two need each other.
This morning an unprompted e-mail waited patiently in my inbox, housing short stories waiting to be read. And then I began to read and was taken. All I want to do is read and talk about writing. Always.
Sometimes I Always Think About You.
The same woman was back on the couch in the mall last night. She was on the phone again talking about how her life has been without joy. It was a story of pity and pessimism, of life serving up nothing but the worst. And for a brief moment in time, I felt sorrow for her. How her life was so clouded that she felt nothing but remorse. And then I felt sorry for her, because of her disillusionment about what life is about.
At times it seems like I feel so much that my heart will not be able to take any more. As if any more excitement or empathy would make it explode inside itself. And then somehow, magically, it regenerates itself and continues to work, persisting onwards.
(In other news, I think I need to stop watching My So-Called Life. Pretty sure Angela Chase is infiltrating my brain.)
113
14 years ago
