"It is such an in between world here for me, not a reflection of either my whole life or my whole brain, just a snippet of each and I think I like it that way. Imaginary, almost, but in many ways more real than the original."
I don't know how she does it. Puts into words exactly what I mean. I mean, what I'm trying to mean. Effortlessly expressing exactly what I'm thinking. I was going to ignore you today, blog. But only the crickets are here keeping me company. Somehow the click of the keyboard helps fill up the space a bit. The space between closing down the house (lights off, dishwasher on, peeks in bedroom doors made, all other doors locked, Lucy peed, water poured, covers down) and slipping into sleep.
I was going to ignore you, blog, tonight, then I read these words and had to record them here, quoted out of the admiration of truth. My "original" life might be more the smudges and grudges that seem to have been polished out of the photos and their captions. But, really, the real life is the magical moments and the essays they inspire.
No body who only reads this knows me or who I am, but does any body know, really know? I feel like I am so much more than I am. More than what I do or say or write or think, there is something else that goes unpainted, never seen. I guess that is what we are all trying to get at.
Somehow as human beings we make it hard for eachother. We set up booby traps of boundaries and then hedge those up with excellent expectations all the while missing the veritable vista on the other side. The cure for this is gratitude. I learned that tonight.
You are happy if you are grateful. And your gratitude will help find the colors of that unpainted place.