It Is An Awful Thing To Be

That Whole Week, We Started To Divide Things Into Those Two Categories: Anything Or Something. A Piece Of Jewelry Bougth At A Department Store: Anything. A Piece Of Jewelry Made By Hand: Something. A Dollar: Anything. A Sand Dollar: Something. A Gift Certificate: Anything. An Iou For Two Hours Of Starwatching: Something. A Drunk Kiss At A Party: Anything. A Sober Kiss Alone In A Park: Something.

I Have Learned How To Observe, Far Better Than Most People Observe. I Am Not Blinded By The Past Or Motivated By The Future. I Focus On The Present, Because That Is Where I Am Destined To Live.

Why Is It So Much Easier To Talk To A Stranger? Why Do We Feel We Need To Disconnect In Order To Connect? If I Wrote "dear Sofia" Or "dear Boomer" Or "dear Lily's Great-aunt" At The Top Of This Postcard, Wouldn't That Change The Words That Followed? Of Course It Would. But The Question Is: When I Wrote "dear Lily," Was That Just A Version Of "dear Myself"? I Know It Was More Than That. But It Was Also Less Than That, Too

We Were Painting By Numbers, Starting With The Greens. Because That Happened To Be Our Favorite Color. And This, We Figured, Had To Mean Something.

Incessant Adj. The Doubts. You Had To Save Me From My Constant Doubts. That Deep-seeded Feeling That I Wasn't Good Enough For Anything I Was A Fake At My Job I Wasn't Your Equal My Friends Would Forget Me If I Moved Away For A Month. It Wasn't As Easy As Hearing Voices Nobody Was Telling Me This. It Was Just Something I Knew. Everyone Else Was Playing Along But I Was Sure That One Day They Would All Stop.