It's in the small hours of the morning that I finish a book over a hundred years old. It brings me such joy to know that one's thoughts can be immortalized, and bring such simple and at the same time complex pleasure of being lost inside another world. It makes me wish to be a child, a sweet, gangly girl with too long legs walking barefoot across southern valleys. I shan't want to look in the mirror for a good fortnight, not exactly ashamed of my curves, but wishing them away for a simpler time, nonetheless.
This simple joy of the birds awakening, and the lush green scent of early summer, holds no boundaries for the spirit. It leaps and spirals and dreams, my eyes awakened from practiced cynicism. What would it be, to not have to worry about late night phone calls, of friends losing themselves in the deceptive lighting of a city night, or where a lover sleeps tonight?
What would it be, to keep a child's heart in one's chest, to hold God's hand with absolute trust, place your faith in the goodness of man and that all's well for the future?
Aspirations with no limitations, idealism unfettered by common sense.
I wish for that.
This simple joy of the birds awakening, and the lush green scent of early summer, holds no boundaries for the spirit. It leaps and spirals and dreams, my eyes awakened from practiced cynicism. What would it be, to not have to worry about late night phone calls, of friends losing themselves in the deceptive lighting of a city night, or where a lover sleeps tonight?
What would it be, to keep a child's heart in one's chest, to hold God's hand with absolute trust, place your faith in the goodness of man and that all's well for the future?
Aspirations with no limitations, idealism unfettered by common sense.
I wish for that.
petsound:
God doesn't hold your hand. She punches you in the face, and it's up to you to get back up, over and over again. Just like you.