Desks (This Is A Metaphor)

     In my room there are two desks. One stands on one side of the room, underneath a window.  The other stands on the opposite side of the room, underneath a window of its own.  Through the first desk's window comes the morning sunlight, and after the day has passed, the second desk's window lets in the light of the evening sun.

     But I did not set out to tell you about the sun's patterns; I wanted to tell you about these desks.


     The first one looks exactly the same as it did the day it was purchased.  It's paint looks lovely and it stands there so strong and new - so pristine and fresh.  Every drawer opens smoothly, and every leg stands straight and steady.  It's a very beautiful desk.

     The second one is spattered with paint and ink.  It's original paint has been chipped or worn off around the edges.  Only three of it's legs are still standing firm - one of them is propped up against the wall.  It's in desperate need of some tender loving care, and it's drawers can barely shut they're so full of papers. 


     I said at the beginning that these two desks are identical.  And though they are identical in basic shape and form, the word "identical" is not really the truth anymore.  From the outside eye, it may seem that one of these desks is beautiful, the other is ugly.  One has been treated well!  The other poor thing has been misused and abused.  But here's something that not everyone sees: one of these desks is full of life. 

    So can you tell me which desk is the one to be pitied?


 ~ Epilogue ~

     So one day, I'll get sick of that regal yet lonely desk and I'll sell it.  I won't even care enough about it to move it gently - it will go in the back of my pickup truck and it will get smattered with bugs and wind. 

     I'll drop it off at Salvation army, where the smell of smoke will seep into the very grain of its wood.  It won't last too long though - it's too nice of a desk by their standards.  Someone will pick it up and they will get their every penny out of it and more.  They will use it and it will be lived in and it will, in time, earn its scars.

     So perhaps the one to be pitied in this little metaphor... isn't a desk at all. 

Young Love

Young love isn’t time tested.  You haven’t had the time to find reasons to hate the other person.  Or if not to hate them, to get really ticked off with them.  You’re still on the high of “This could work out!  This could be it!” You forget that with time comes sloppiness, sadness, anger, snot, snoring, jealousy, and all of the flaws that are our own and that we'll struggle with daily (or decide not to struggle with, but instead give in to).

Young love has it's perks.  See, when you're trying to win another person, you generally tend to try to be more understanding, forgiving, gentle, strong, kind, and thoughtful. I've been around quite a few loveless older couples who would benefit, I think, from just a little bit more understanding for one another. 

I'm not saying that there isn't a place for young love.  But I am saying that people should be more careful that they aren't participating in stupid, ignorant love.   I'm being blunt, but "expectation is the root of all heartache" (thanks, Shakespeare) and divorce is a heartache.  

A Thought

Sometimes I have a philosopher's mind, and my body rejects sleep in favor of thinking.

My body is stupid.  Sleep is my friend.

Sometimes I Drink Too Much Coffee

Why is it that it's sometimes the people we love most that we have the hardest time conveying our love to?  Why is it that it's our parents, our best friends from forever, sometimes even our significant others that we take for granted? 

I suppose the answer to this question can be rooted in something good.  We can get so comfortable around some people that we don't have to try and prove or buy their affection.  We know and are confident that we have it and yes, this is a wonderful thing.

But all the same, I think that we can take our favorite people for granted a bit too often.  Someone once said that in order to improve your gratitude towards something, then pretend for a moment that you've lost it.  If you aren't happy with your home, what if you didn't have a home?  If you aren't grateful for your spouse, then what if you lost your spouse?

Maybe this post is silly.  Maybe it spawns from the fact that I am writing a romance novel, or perhaps from the fact that my boyfriend is a firefighter who is often in situations that are full of danger, and I worry about him.  But on the other hand, maybe there's something to it.  The way I see it, there are so many things in life that we do in mediocrity and love shouldn't be one of them.

Call it foolishness, call it genius, call it youth.  But I guess what I'm trying to say is that we shouldn't always hold back from saying I love you.

TWS

"Their confidence in me is my greatest fear."

An Observance

Love is a funny thing.  It’s so universal, yet so specific.  People write poetry and songs and whole books in attempts to explain it.  I cannot claim to be as wise as the poets and musicians and authors before me.  So this is simply an observance.  

You see, there’s a him in my life.  How him came to be in my life is subject for a different post.  Yes, explaining him should be saved for a different post, a handful of poems, a few whispered songs, and perhaps even a book.  But in order to understand my observance, you had to know about the him.

That aside, here’s my observance.  Before him, I wore pony tails all the time.  I wasn’t comfortable with my hair - it’s frizzy and can be very untamed.  So I wore a pony tail.  Why the constant pony tails?  Because a pony tail is reliable.  I can grab all of my hair in an elastic and put it behind me where I and other people can't see it.  It isn’t going to get in my eyes, and I don’t have to deal with the risk of having unruly, unsightly hair all of the time.  I didn’t wear pony tails every day, but whenever I didn’t I was uncomfortable and insecure.  

But since him, I’ve stopped worrying about finding elastics.  I’ve stopped my almost-daily routine of pulling my hair back.  I’ve literally let my hair down.  Not because him told me to, not because him likes long hair, nothing like that.  Simply because being with him makes me feel like it’s alright.

I don’t think love is the same thing as romance.  I think love might be about finding someone who you are comfortable with regardless of what you look like, or how tired you are, or what your day held.  Someone who, when you let your hair down around them, both of you are still alright with yourselves and each other.  I’m learning to let my hair down.

And I think I like it.

Your Name

Names are funny things, I think –

The importance we tack to them,

Of how they’re spelled and what

They mean: leader, servant, or gem

It shows how little we can read into

The lives of those around us

From the people that we barely know

To the people we feel have found us

But I love your name, I love its sound

Spoken by any voice at all

I love it for what it means to me

I love that it’s a voice I can call

You see

Your name means safety,

And a heart that’s true

And most of all,

Your name means you