Isn't it strange?

How inspiration is like sunlight? It kind of feels like when you put your fresh-out-of-the-drier clothes on and all you can think of is the warmth and all the little words mustering up inside the delicately sewn stitches. Isn’t it strange? How we can love people we didn’t even know existed? How we’d gladly take their pain away, just so we can have a little bit of them and keep their unknown soul impervious. It’s kind of like starting in the middle of a season of every one’s favorite television series, knowing it’s going to be good, but you hadn’t been there from the start. Isn’t it strange? How melodic tunes can make us whimper silent poetic harmonies, or dance until our bones rattle with joy? They say it’s the structured character of the music that can pull on your brain and body’s chemicals and make you “feel” different things. I think it’s the humans capability to let go of everything physical and feel everything sublime; To forget the fact that we all are of skin and bones and veins and organs and chemicals, and relish in experiencing something that cannot be explained by things as such. 


At times I can’t find any form of word for any one emotional current I am feeling. Though, at times, I can find a million words for what I want to feel.
Isn’t it strange? 


At times I want you to feel a certain way by the words I say, but I end up never saying them. But sometimes I’ll spill all the light that steals into the world and sometimes you can’t see it. Sometimes no one can see it. 


I’m looking for the one that can.


Isn’t it strange?

Wasted hours

Today I saw an elderly couple at the place I work. They had to be in(at the very least) their seventies. I was sitting on the ground fixing some things here and there, and I look and this older women who seemed to be trying to remember what she was getting, and her husband said "remember the Yeast, honey?" she nodded and smiled, and I bet she was going to go home and make bread, or a pie. She was wearing these loose high wasted jeans, with this pink blouse. She had white curly hair, and he had the glasses that all the kids these days seem to want. I couldn't stop staring at these people. I don't know why. If I had my Konica, I would have asked to take a picture. 


Anyway, It got me thinking. They looked utterly happy and calm. They seemed to be so fragile and small but I could see their hearts beating for each other. I started to long to be that age. To have more lines than the trees that grew in grandmothers back yard diary. I thought maybe I could recycle all my future ambitions and endeavors and lock myself in a place to dispose of my young hood. I wouldn't even need someone next to me.


But I couldn't stop looking at the slant of their mouths when they looked at each other. To see how feeble they seemed, but then notice their strength to hold out so long for each other. To wait for what we are all waiting for. To Leave. To leave with someone. To go home to shaky letters from a husband who is old all the same; To be as equal with someone that you will die with them is completely mind blowing to me. I want to grow old and I don't know If I will. I want to have children who have had children. But I don't know if I will. I want to look back on a life that will grow flowers on my grave. Maybe even make them bloom.
But I think that's asking too much.