I'm pretty sure I don't have a sense of curiosity over certain things. Stories and human nature don't seem to concern me. I ponder over things that never occur to others. My sense of wonder is off base, its off the field, its out of the parking lot, its beyond the grasp of any fan of the sport. I miss the days that I think never existed, when I could sit home and sew, knit, paint, collage. When I could write secret stories, and secret poetry and post things on my secret blog (with a growing readership I'll never know- I'll never even wonder about). When I could eat bacon, and drink apple cider and be inspired by the sheer joy from the taste, when I felt nothing in life could be better than that. When I thought that maybe one day I could feel that way about a person. When there was no contradiction in my head over what I like, what I love. There was a time, and I know it existed. It was before that first realization that I could be happy giving up all of my dreams, for that one thing that I love. I wouldn't go back, but I can't get it out of my head. The age of innocence...
This post is to August Strindberg, despite being dead for 98 years I think he'd appreciate this, at least on his own crazy level (if he can remain unaware of my gender).
No comments:
Post a Comment