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.
“Tis the dream, alas there is no hope” ~ Benjamin Franklin
Buff away at the hate; polish and reveal the love beneath.
The stab of your words
pain that radiates through my mind
The event has passed
it should be over
it should be able
to stay in the past
where it belongs.
It can resurrect if it wants to
it can hurt you
make you remember
never let you forget.