One should know better than to meddle in issues over which they should have no say and have no stake in other than that they want to feel important.
Not really sure what this is about; I just wanted to write something. so yeah.
After all that had happened, she was relieved to be home.
It had been a long day. A test, a quiz, and even more… non-school related of course. Except she didn’t really care to think about that part. What had happened in relation to her one and only friend in the place that was school.
But oh well; she had done it once without anyone to help he, she could and would have to do it again.
I used to have questions about anything. I looked at the world, and I just wanted to know how it all worked. Its wonders never ended.
Now, I probably don’t care enough to question every single little thing around me, because I was unfortunate enough to get to know the more harsh realities of this world. I learned that everything has nuance, and there is no straightforward answer to anything. There is no single reason why a person acts the way they do,
so it does no good to question it.
She wanted nothing more than to be able to turn back the clock; she wondered when she had earned the right to deserve this.
Wondered why it had to end.
Despite what she said, she would miss it. She would always.
In the end she didn’t want to forget a single moment of it.
She wanted to stay in this time forever, but… she knew that despite what she wanted time would move on without her and if she didn’t catch up she would be left behind in the dust.
The wound on my heart is tender; I am happy for what I have accomplished, but I am sad for what I am about to leave behind.
Do you ever think about what your story will be?
Will it be important?
Will it be remembered?
Will anything you ever do make any impact?
One can only hope.
“Legacy. What is a legacy?
It’s planting seeds in a garden you never get to see
I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me”
~Some beautiful words from The World Was Wide Enough, from Hamilton, by Lin-Manuel Miranda (of course, who else)
Keeping it the same, keeping it uniform and fair, giving everybody the same exact thing should be enough, right?
Different people have different needs, and it does not help to give everybody the same thing; the same help, the same resources to help them succeed.
So no. You need to give people what they need specifically; not what most people need.
Her friend was imaginary, seemingly. He used to be real, but now he wasn’t, he was gone.
It was a long story.
All she knew was that she missed him, but he would never be able to come back from where he was now. She hoped he was happy, but he would never know now.
She wondered if he ever thought about her; if she was happy, if she was successful, if he even cared anymore. If he remembered her. She wondered what he did now. She wondered if she would be able to see him again.
She saw him sometimes, though he was now imaginary; she saw him where he would be at home, where he would just fit. Or where she thought he would. She didn’t trust her memories of him anymore; they seemed almost too magical. Too untouched, to perfect, in a way. Like they almost weren’t real anymore.
She only remembered him in a certain number of ways; she had been his friend, but not allowed too much time. What time they had, they had made last, before he had to leave. It had been fun. But it had been so long.
So she didn’t know if her few retained memories were fair to him; if it was fair where she imagined his smiles, his jokes. Those whispered memories weren’t enough sometimes; she just wanted to see him again, though she knew she would have to wait.
All she knew was that she missed him.
Her brassy hair waved behind her as she looked out the window of the bus. Again and again, as she always had.
A familiar view it was. Every single morning for years, seemingly.
There was laughing around her. There were other people.
But she just stared out of the open window, the wind pushing her hair behind her. The air moving past her, moving the same way that it always had.
It was enough.
She looked in the pool of water, down at her reflection.
Well, there were certainly many things to reflect about, that was for sure.
She wasn’t sure why she had come here, to this park. She probably looked strange staring at her self in the mucky pond.
She dragged her fingers across the surface of the water, blurring her reflection, waves going out through the still water.
Like the aftershocks of that earthquake from the epicenter.
She woke a few mornings ago to a slight shaking. She went outside to see if it was the air conditioner was acting up again, and somehow she ended up in a ambulance hours later, pulled out from under the rubble.
Her roommates had died under that house. She had gone to bed late and was still in so light a sleep that she was awoken by the first, weaker vibrations, and she was the only one who had survived in that house.
If she hadn’t decided to stay up late studying, she would be dead, crushed under the weight of the second floor falling on top of her.
So she watched the surface of the water calm, as the earthquake had ended. Completed with all of her friends dead.
And yet she was as calm as the surface of the water after those waves. She was not in ruins, like her home had been reduced to. She seemed calm; her mind was murky and uncertain like the pond water beneath the surface.