Some times are delightful and no matter how sadly they end, you will still have had them, lovely, lovely moments that they were.
So, I will always have my moments by the sea and on the hill, and in the halls and on the roads. They were all of them beautiful, so how can I honestly mind them turning out differently from what I wanted them to be?
On the other hand, life is rather beautiful right now too. It was lovely being sixteen and seventeen but I must say I’m happy being twenty-two and in love. It’s different this time around but I always knew this one would be. What I want now is so much easier to accept and wanting so much less is also more acceptable. If only I could stop speaking in allusions and say out loud that this is a delicious feeling and that I wouldn’t trade for all the kisses in the world (because kisses in the end are the only monies I’m willing to accept. Every other form of barter seems to have too many drawbacks.)
But allusions are the closest I’ve ever permitted myself to the truth and it seems to me that I can’t break the habit any more. My feelings are too private for me to be entirely comfortable with telling everyone at large about the whys and wherefores. I don’t mind telling everybody I’ve had a good life – for I have and it’d be lying to say otherwise – but I cannot make myself tell them in which ways it has been good to me.
It’s good to be alive on some days. And never mind cranky knees and pesky tests and cussed relatives. They contribute to the general joy of things, like it as they will. After all, my knees may hurt but I can still run if I’ve a mind to and I may have test in two hours (which I haven’t studied for) but that’s two hours away… and cussed relatives are funny. Quite, quite funny.
Or maybe it’s me who’s the funny one?