i try to but am sure that i never will understand why things happen. more specifically, i am sure that i never will understand why awful things happen to wonderful people.
the head of a caring and generous family is taken away after months of struggling with cancer.
half of an amazing young couple, the kindest man i will ever know, is claimed by the same fate months before his second child is born.
a treasured wife, mother, daughter, and friend battles for over a year before she, too, succumbs to the disease and misses the transformation of her two young sons into the men that they will become.
these people all had tremendous support, hope and prayers behind them to the very end. everybody believed so hard that "the end" would turn out differently. but it didn't. and i'm here asking why.
why is it that the people who least deserve it are the ones who get it? whatever happened to karma?
i'm afraid that i may never understand life's cruelty. some say that everything happens for a reason; to make us stronger, to guide us later on. but i fail to see how a child will learn life through losing a teacher. i fail to see how a young girl will become stronger by walking down the aisle alone.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
one chapter down...
Today is a beautiful day. I don't know if you seen it, but I'm telling you right now, it's beautiful. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and the cliches are piling up.
I decided to take advantage of this weather and catch up on some reading this afternoon. So I grabbed a pillow and my most recent 'I've-decided-to-read-this-no-matter-how-long-it-takes-me-just-so-I-can-say-I-read-it-and-perhaps-expand-my-mind-a-little-in-the-process' book and headed out into the sunshine. Where it was warm.
Right now, it is still a gorgeous afternoon. Yet I am not outside. I am, in fact, inside. Turns out that a half a kilo of SPF30 is only enough when it's cloudy. And I suspect that, being a fair-skinned redhead with only half a kilo of SPF30, venturing out-of-doors to take advantage of the sunshine was not exactly the most brilliant of ideas.
And here is where I tell you why.
I only have half a kilo of after-sun.
I decided to take advantage of this weather and catch up on some reading this afternoon. So I grabbed a pillow and my most recent 'I've-decided-to-read-this-no-matter-how-long-it-takes-me-just-so-I-can-say-I-read-it-and-perhaps-expand-my-mind-a-little-in-the-process' book and headed out into the sunshine. Where it was warm.
Right now, it is still a gorgeous afternoon. Yet I am not outside. I am, in fact, inside. Turns out that a half a kilo of SPF30 is only enough when it's cloudy. And I suspect that, being a fair-skinned redhead with only half a kilo of SPF30, venturing out-of-doors to take advantage of the sunshine was not exactly the most brilliant of ideas.
And here is where I tell you why.
I only have half a kilo of after-sun.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
on art and dissatisfaction
I've always felt like I could be a writer. You know, poems, stories, songs. I'm really good at descriptions and editing. The trouble is that I can't manage to write a story to edit or a find a subject to describe. And I can't write a poem to save my life.
Prime Example:
There once was a girl from the Nile
Who sat in the sun for a while
She started to bake
So she jumped in the lake
And was ate by a big crocodile
Okay, acceptable as a limerick, yet lacking something. Am I wrong?
This little dilemma all started back before I was born when I decided to become artistic. And when I was old enough to move, I did a little dance and called it art. And then, when I was old enough to pick up a crayon, I made a mark on a paper and called it art. And then, when I was old enough to reach the piano, I pushed a few keys and called it art. And now, I am old enough to write, and if I put a few words together I feel like they have no purpose; no meaning. That is, of course, if I can figure out which words to put together.
I seem to be able to write about things that I am not satisfied about, though, so I guess that's a start.
Maybe I'll call it art.
Prime Example:
There once was a girl from the Nile
Who sat in the sun for a while
She started to bake
So she jumped in the lake
And was ate by a big crocodile
Okay, acceptable as a limerick, yet lacking something. Am I wrong?
This little dilemma all started back before I was born when I decided to become artistic. And when I was old enough to move, I did a little dance and called it art. And then, when I was old enough to pick up a crayon, I made a mark on a paper and called it art. And then, when I was old enough to reach the piano, I pushed a few keys and called it art. And now, I am old enough to write, and if I put a few words together I feel like they have no purpose; no meaning. That is, of course, if I can figure out which words to put together.
I seem to be able to write about things that I am not satisfied about, though, so I guess that's a start.
Maybe I'll call it art.
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