I went to my mom’s house today. Whilst going home, I drove past a girl’s house where I used to play when I was a kid, and her son was outside playing in the dirt. He was around the age that she and I were when I played in that yard with her. It made me happy and a little sad at the same time. People grow up and grow old and wither and die, and new life always takes the place of old. She is all grown up and all moved on, and her flesh and blood is there, in her old place, digging his hands in the same earth, threading his fingers through the same soil.
This next part I had worded perfectly while I was driving home, soaked in memories. Now that I am in front of my computer and able to write, I am not able, you know? I’ve typed and retyped and my brain will not cooperate. So, this next part will be crappily explained, but the fact that I know it’s crappy means you get to judge me less, right?
How important are we, as individuals, anyway? How much can we influence, how far into the future can we reach long after we’re dead, just by treating others with kindness and warmth and love and respect? Kindness begets kindness begets kindness. For all that we are alike, we really aren’t, for all our sameness, all the same. Rise and fall, ebb and flow, young and old. People as a whole are kind of like an individual; bleed, scab, heal. Bleed scab heal. Bleed scab heal, bleedscabheal. We turn each heartbreak into a story. We turn each scar into a story. Each person into a story. Each life into a story. And into the sea of humanity individuals get lost, and I wish I could take each of you and pull you into me. I would hold you all there, in my heart, in my mind, and listen to your stories.
I want not just the story that you show to everyone, but the one in your head; the kind that you lucky and/or unfortunate people read when I do my word-brain-dump. This place tends to be my internal musing/scrap paper/random thought notebook. If I could, I’d doodle in the side margins. To me, those are the best kinds of stories. And if I could read minds, it would be intense and overwhelming and amazing and sad and happy and I would be awash in the awesome feeling of it all.
Some days I feel like in a hundred years from now, nothing I have done or will do will matter. Some days I feel the opposite. Today? Today I feel that when I cease to entertain God, and he shuffles me loose the mortal coil, I will go knowing that I made sure the people I loved knew that I loved them. I will go knowing that even though I had off days and cranky days, I treated strangers with just as much kindness as I would people I cared about; or at least really tried to. Because strangers have their own stories, and even if I have only a tiny part in it, I want it to be a positive one.
I’ll stop now, before it gets any weirder.