A quote - Isaac Asimov

If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster. - Isaac Asimov

Swim in My Universe

We all live in parallel dimensions. It is as though there are multiple universes. My universe is different from the universe of the cubicle mate who sits around the corner. His universe is different from the universe of my boss. No one of us has the same perspective as another. The seconds of our lives tick by without ever truly knowing what another is thinking or feeling in that particular second. We can only read or learn about said thought after the fact, and by that time, that particular thought in that unknown second has already been filtered, distilled, or expanded and expounded upon.

Is it the pure thought that is more valuable, or is it the revised thought? This is not a question anyone can truly answer. You can make arguments for both. The pure thought is raw, closer to what you really think, and probably closer to what you feel. The revised thought has been refined, weighed and is closer to what you want to think or want to evoke.

In high school, I took a creative writing class. Every day, we had a few minutes of free writing. We were supposed to write down anything and everything we were thinking until the time had finished. I came up with my best story ideas in those few minutes. In life, our minds are always free writing, but we never jot it down. When I started this blog, I did not know what I was going to write about. All I knew was that I wanted to get something down. I wanted my thoughts to flow and to think of something that was not in the monotonous flow of my daily life. I wanted to write about something that had nothing to do with the regular flow of my universe.

Sometimes I am so dramatic.

Unrequited Love

I felt I had to document this for my sake. There is no edification in my words nor some new insight into unrequited love. It is merely the recordation of an end.

A few months ago, I fell in love for the second time in my life. I had been seeing him socially for more than a year. It was as though one day, I greeted him as a friend; a friend I viewed affectionately, but a friend nonetheless. Then, almost from one day to the next, overwhelming feelings of anticipation, joy, longing, comfort, desire, and passion consumed me. Every time I saw him, I wanted to be with him; to be near him; to smell him; to feel my hands on his skin; to kiss his lips, his eyes, his ears, his neck, well, his everything; and I wanted to be able to love him openly. I felt like my heart had never been broken because this love was pushing all the pain out.

He’s everything I wanted in a man, except that he does not love me, and I know he never will. Of that, there is not a shred of doubt. So I finally buried my love. My heart bears a fresh wound. He never meant to cause it, so in that I have some comfort.

The end.

A reflection

My sons just turned 8 and 9 years old, and I feel as though I was changing their diapers a few months ago. I marvel that I am raising two boys with their own personalities, whims, desires, and needs. I feel inadequate to the task and self-centered at times. I have been taking them out more often to birthday parties and family functions so they can socialize more outside of school.

At the same time, I have been spoiling them and buying them things I never had. They both have hand-held game systems, with more than one game. I take them out to eat far more than I ever did as a child. It is no longer a special occasion to them, so I feel I robbed them the feeling of surprise and joy it used to give me as a child. I tell them that they do not realize how lucky they are, but it is solely my fault that they view their possessions as commonplace. I have decided to start taking away their treasured toys for a week every month just so that they can appreciate them more.

They impress me every day with their ideas and they sheer joy in life. I watch their faces as they tell me of their day. One part of me responding with required oohs and awws of conversation, the other cataloging the tones in their skin, a leftover milk mustache from their noon-day meals, and perhaps a new grass stain on their pants. I wish I knew those little stories, but I never will. It is the way of life, just as my mother does not know even 5% of what I do with my days.