Everything is a little bit/a lot bit fiction.
I am reading the Maytrees, it is beautiful. It is a book about love and really nothing else, about the type of love I don't believe in, not because I am a cynic, but because something about this sort of love is tragic and heavy, humorless. But I like to read about it.
"She lacked a woman's sense of doom. She did what she wanted--like who else on earth? All her life she found dignity over-rated. She rolled down dunes."
"Once, while he slept on his side, his legs thrashed and he panted. She pressed his shoulder. Chasing a rabbit? He exhaled and said, tap-dancing." (Remember when Grandma told me she woke up sore because she'd been figure skating in her sleep?)
Is it Saturday? Is my heart broken? I love Paul Simon, but lack the same affinity for Art Garfunkel. It is Saturday. My heart is no more or less broken than it has been any other day this year. It's in pretty good shape. I have one more week here. I am scared to leave, for the same reasons I am always scared to leave. For the same reasons my Grandma is afraid, always. We don't want to be forgotten. We try to prove that people don't forget by pushing ourselves to remember. All this really does it make it hurt a little more when we realize we're not being thought of. We want everyone to be like us, but the precise reason we love them is because they aren't. I am learning to be better, to not ask so much of other people, to not ask so much of myself, but just to let things unfold naturally. Maybe the beliefs I root myself in aren't the right things to be stuck with forever. I am letting myself fluctuate but to not be completely flakey. I am scared, a little bit always, but never as much as I used to be.