Most things we write come out of a moment of enthusiasm
I was going to do a post on Kony, but I can’t bear to any more. Too much has already been said, too much is already being done. If you really want to know what I think and feel about this issue then leave a comment and I’ll do a post sometime soon. But for now, enough.
And now I don’t know what to write instead.
I used to think that if you cared enough about someone, if you had enough hope for them, that they would end up a better person because of it. I used to think that if you loved someone enough they would want to be a better person, for you, if not for themselves. That isn’t true. Some people will just take it and run with it and break you with it. And then you have to stay and pick up the pieces, find the super glue, stick yourself back together. You end up a different person because of it.
I used to think the world was a good and happy place, and it is, but there needs to be more good and happy people in it. Thats such a difficult thing to define though, a good person, a bad person…they are all just people. Just people, who do what they think they should at the time. Im not angry at people who don’t want to better their own soul. I haven’t given up on people, but I have given up on the fact that I can make one iota of difference to how someone wants to be. I don’t have the patience. Butter scraped over too much bread. The right amount of butter, just too much bread.
And now some writing for the day.
You cleared the plates from dinner and sat down with a flump on the couch. Another wasted day. Well, you had got stuff done, but the dishes still sat in the sink and the clothes were still hanging on the clothesline outside. After three days it was probably dry by now, even with the late summer shower. A toddler limbered into the room with much hesitation. The kind of child that was just coming to terms with the fact that there was more to the world, more to himself than just that, himself. What a nervous idea. As all children do, he lived in hope that any situation was a good one. At the age of three, with such a limited scope, even he could comprehend his own mortal condition. So all he could do was hope that the world could be good place. This particular child seemed particularly worried about it, and always kept a look of concern on his face. A child like him shouldn’t be so worried, but then a child like you shouldn’t be either.
You used to climb the mountains out by your home. You used to explore the trees, take a reference book in your backpack and study the leaves intently until each vein matched up with the drawing in your book. Each night you dutifully copied your own drawings down into your own reference book. You had a swimming pool in your garden, though you didn’t know how to swim. Your brother always said he would teach you, but he never did. It was nice by the pool. The water was salty, not as salty as the sea (not that you knew how salty the sea was, it was too far away), but salty enough that you didn’t want to swim in it, even if you could. You would sit by the pool though, not too close, but sit by the pool and read your books. Always reference books, always some kind if natural thing. By the pool it would be fossils, on accnt of the little specimens that had been added into the pavers. Many an afternoon had been whiled away studying those pavers by the pool.
You were thirteen when the boy found you. It might seem odd, him finding you when he was barely a newborn. The circus had been and gone and it was generally agreed on that it was some bastard child that some freak had been careless with enough to lose. It didn’t matter either way, in the end he was yours to take care of. You still weren’t sure how that turn of events came to be. Maybe because you were the one the baby ignored the most. But after that you couldn’t be a child, you had to grow up. You had a responsibility. You did love tat child though, even though he ignored you and made you beg for every last piece of acknowledgment. The boy had blue eyes, as blue as the pool, though it kept on changing. He was always changing, it was most unnerving for you. But despite it all he needed you, and you both knew that. You were his rock, for better or worse. He might have chosen you, but in the end that didn’t matter. All that mattered, was him.
To be continued (maybe)