It makes me less lonely when my friends are writers: I feel their souls next to me when I read their words.
There are a few things that make me smile, no matter what. At the moment all I can remember is that babies are at the top of that list, but also somewhere in there are the moments in between our words when we can smile in silence.
Speaking of which, silence is only good to me when it is in comfort. At most other times, words or music fill the spaces, and that makes me happy. I love the quickness of words between friends, the back and forth movements, like watching a tennis match between two or four or ten people. The chaos is beautiful.
When the chocolate chip cookies were in the oven tonight, I wanted to keep baking, to hold onto the memories of 11 year old me in the kitchen, and the additional countless past and future times I have been or will be in the kitchen, washing the butter from my hands and waiting impatiently for the end.
Going to the beach makes me revert to a child-like state. I will run into a flock of seagulls, play in the water, and act in a rather frivolous manner. Pray that this never changes.
I have grown quiet in the sense that my words are struggling to fit the things I know and see, the little pieces of the world around me and the things that we cannot see with our physical eyes. Sensing the small changes and the shards of glass and the bottle caps and perfectly cut grass and the sirens and the sun coming in through the window to light up your hair and a giant bowl of ice cream and
wait for it
shaking my head (I’ve lost it).
But there is time for endless lists. Emotions are stored in neat little labeled boxes on a rickety shelf somewhere in the back of my head. The most fiery one is the sense of justice, the most meek the feeling of accomplishment. Somewhere in between and all expansive is love.