“Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind. Their leaves are telling secrets. Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks. And their roots give names to all things. Their language has been lost. But not the gestures.” ― Vera Nazarian
"This street only sees me and I, have only ever glanced at it as I walked through it. I was not there for its naming, its cracks on the ground, its statue imported from another country, or the way it was told to bend and turn since its conception. It was there for when my life fell apart, when I carried a potted plant into my first visit to a friend's house, or for the time you smiled into my arms.
It will outlive me and it will continue outlive many others, seeing their lives fleet through its rocky veins like a river of our collective consciousness, heading somewhere and nowhere at all.
It is within that thought that lies the solace of my obligations."
I remember going to the village library with my grandma, back when it was still open, and when we weren't... this, enemies, strangers, whatever it is. Anyway, that's not what the memory is about. It was summer, there were renovations happening, I think, it smelled like paint and old wood. The library was really tiny, barely a room, with a main hall reserved for events. This was where I first discovered the author who would be my favorite for years, still is.
The librarian was really nice, she let me borrow the video game magazines you weren't supposed to take home.
I would pick the books I liked, and then spend the days on the giant swing that my great grandpa build, occasionally with a cat on my lap. Even back then, there was this intense feeling of longing, of missing something, though I wasn't sure what it was. And now, looking back, I feel the same. Although I suppose now it's clearer.
I miss peacefulness, the relaxed confidence of a child who doesn't believe bad things could happen to her. I miss the joy that comes from being surrounded by people you love, in a place that only ever tried to give you happy memories.
When I think about those summers at my childhood home, I feel grief. Right now, everything is so... painful. I'm exhausted and scared all the time, and every single dream I have seems unattainable, even with how simple they are. Why is it that being at least content is a luxury? What kind of world is that?
Loquat flowers! I couldn't catch them when they were all fresh and open (rainy days), but I still think they're so pretty.
Also, shout out to loquats?? They're extremely sturdy, super easy to grow (just accidentally throw a seed somewhere and occasionally water), flowers smell so good, fruits are so yummy. Bless them bless them