From birth to death you hear these things, phrases tossed around like a baseball from father to son. Though I can only vouch for those written in English from the perspective of an American, I can say now with confidence that many of the things our elders tell us are true, or at the very least hold enough value through history to be given some attention. In today’s search for beautiful things, the phrase “stop to smell the flowers” helped me turn a neutral day into a good one.
Sometimes I feel like a leech. Like I can barely brush my fucking teeth.
Nearly everyone I’ve ever met makes me feel like Alaska. You make me feel like Pudge.
This new job is easy enough. I delivered pizzas for a while and it is essentially the same thing. This is looking less like a hinderance and more like an opportunity. Today while driving in the Gig Harbor area, I noticed that make houses were surrounded by flowers and flowering trees in bloom. I have never been the biggest fan of the smell of these so widely beloved things, but today I gave it a try. At the cost of a net total of about 15 minutes (which I can not complain about because technically I was being paid for it) I got to see so many beautiful things today: trees I imagine are akin to cherry blossoms (though I have no idea what they actually were), bushes covered in violet blooms nearly the size of my head, and the occasional lonely sprout trying his best not to drop the one bud that manages to reach maturity. I saw many rich people’s homes, and rather than looking at them with envy or some sense that the owners did something immoral to get to where they were, I had the chance to admire the craftsmanship that went in to designing and building these complex structures. Landscaping crews cut lawns while navigating a maze of automatic sprinklers and I got to play the observer.
When asked by an old friend what I want to be, I told him my actualized ideal self is a tree: I feel weighed down by the constant need to find fuel to keep me going, and I often feel like I should not dare inflict myself on the world around me. Trees are silent observers who get the things they need to survive from their immediate surrounding: they do not judge, they do not pry or stare or laugh or cry or scream at the sky until their lungs give out
they just are
I wish to be