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weird
WTF MOMENT | Presidential Election 2012 & Cats Driving Cars
Well the boyfriend is working in Colorado canvassing for the Obama Campaign for the next week & a half. Personally, i cannot wait until this election is over. I dread checking my email because of all the news emails I am constantly being barraged with.…
I miss her all the time. I know in my head that she has gone. The only difference is that I am getting used to the pain. It's like discovering a great hole in the ground. To begin with, you forget it's there and keep falling in. After a while, it's still there, but you learn to walk round it.
— Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry
But what we are is what our ancestors did. How they survived. We are the memories we don’t remember, which live in us, which we feel, which make us sing and dance and pray the way we do, feelings from memories that flare and bloom unexpectedly in our lives like blood through a blanket from a wound made by a bullet fired by a man shooting us in the back for our hair, for our heads, for a bounty, or just to get rid of us.
Chilling winds swept beneath the doorsills and rattled the loose windowpanes with a monotonous tinkling sound. The last of the leaves fell from the bare trees and only the pines stood clothed, black and cold against pale skies. The rutted red roads were frozen to flintiness and hunger rode the winds through Georgia.
I watched as the self became what you made. You linked your Facebook and Instagram and Twitter accounts. You were the sum of every vacation photo ever taken, the quantity of birthday wishes you received, the amount of followers you could count across platforms. There was no such thing as IRL. Your body might sleep, but your profile stayed up all night like a lit marquee.
I never thought my life would turn out like this. Suddenly, I was forty-five. Suburban and manic. As beige and lumpy as oatmeal. Was this it? Were my best years all gone? And if so, who would ever take me seriously—or love me—or even look at me again? In the past, I’d kept such wretched thoughts at bay by drinking.
— Susan Jane Gilman, Donna Has Left the Building
For all the joys Thy child shall bring, The risk of grief we'll run. We'll shelter him with tenderness, We'll love him while we may, And for the happiness we've known, Forever grateful stay. But should the angels call for him, Much sooner than we've planned. We'll brave the bitter grief that comes, And try to understand.
— Edgar A. Guest, Child of Mine