"...the world breaks us all. Afterward, some are stronger at the broken places." - earnest hemingway
























"Most of us can read the writing on the wall; we just assume it's addressed to someone else." - ivern ball
"The countenances of children, like those of animals, are masks, not faces, for they have not yet developed a significant profile of their own." - w.h. auden
images via ghostinsnow
"When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory." - Marcel Proust The Remembrance of Things Past
Many foods make me nostalgic for childhood but there are times when an unexpected waft of something pleasant triggers a long buried memory that's both random and unexpected. One you didn't even know you had until you're reliving it like an old super 8 movie. An unexpected surprise that none the less delights you for however brief that moment. The smell of coffee on someone's breath always takes me back to when I was a little girl, and early morning kisses from my indulgent father before he left for work in his military uniform. The aroma of burnt sugar, sweet popcorn, or spicy rice cakes remind me of busy street markets, and a time when our family lived in Korea. Fried chicken and homemade biscuits bring to mind my grandmother, as does oranges and honey. Chitlins take be back to summer food festivals in the South with my childhood best friend in her family's roach coach. Pop Rocks of being a kid and sharing stories, big whoppers that we all believed more or less. These as with all my memories are unique to me, and therefore are the markers of my life. And still with every passing moment I'm collecting yet another memory, one that at some point in the future will be more satisfying than a shoebox filled with old photographs.
"The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order." - Eudora Welty
"Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regret mounting." - haruki murakami
The passing of time is like one full cycle of a spinning fan, each blade staggering to catch up to the next moment. Its soothing blow a forgotten caress whispering across hot skin, circulating and whipping up a tempest of fading memories. A rush of regrets caught, and recycled in a pocket of stale air. Events stirred and ruffled, flapping like insistent markers from the past. We are but Rip Van Winkles waking from a strange dream, or the old man that sits quietly at his window watching a world that’s slowly forgotten him. If only we could make it last forever, but not frozen and staring back at us with dead eyes. Hold it back, slow it down and meet it somewhere in the middle. Drag out the days and nights, and stretch it out like sugar taffy, or thick dripping molasses. Lingering sticky, but sweet. If only we could pilfer from the attics of our memories, forgotten relics roused from sleep to remind us of loves lost, and found, in the crinkled folds of our minds. Swipe away the cobwebs, shake out the lingering dust, and discard the mothballs that are but stale remnants of lives squandered. Or a ruffled feather floating in the last strains of a lingering note. A whisper of silk waiting to exhale; a whistle of steam piercing the stillness and vibrating against the underside of our skins. A lost sigh, a puff of smoke, waiting to be swallowed whole. A cold draft that leaves you shivering in the hothouse of forgotten yesterdays. How we hasten to follow a fading trail left by a flurry of dust, smudged and ruined by time. The pesky flies of time, they are but wings fluttering madly at my ear. For every one I swat away, two come to take its place. Shoo, fly, shoo.