May I ask a favor of all my readers? Raise your hand (figuratively, of course) if you can see my dollz. Thank you, loves.
There’s nothing like the feeling of flying; of feeling your hair blown back into a steady stream while your body falls towards the horizon. I can count the number of times I flew in the past week. When Desi and I rode in the bow of the ship, I intertwined my fingers with the silver support bar and let myself follow the wind-blown path of the boat. When I sat in a pliable plastic tube, feeling the white sprays of water dance on my skin, I wondered if birds held so tightly onto their tenuous perches when the soaring slowed to a soft drift of air across their wings. But when I clung tightly to Desi’s life jacket as we soared towards the late afternoon sun on a wave runner, I knew then, the elusive secret that we’ve dreamed of for so long.
Isn’t it strange that revelation can be accompanied by industry? It seems wrong, somehow, to trust the divine hopes of our hearts to what our hands can create.
I wrote the above a few days ago, meaning to finish after work-- unfortunately, work is long and tiring, and I never got to it-- and now I have a cold. There’s nothing poetic about a sore throats and headaches, and just sheer tiredness that makes the world fade black momentarily whenever my eyelids feel heavy. I have lots of pictures and stories to tell, but those will just have to wait.
Suffice it to say I miss all of you, blogger-reading darlings. Maybe, when I have the coherance to take up my laptop again, I’ll say it in ways that are a little more expressive than cliched sentiments. But for now, that’s all I’m capable of.
There’s nothing like the feeling of flying; of feeling your hair blown back into a steady stream while your body falls towards the horizon. I can count the number of times I flew in the past week. When Desi and I rode in the bow of the ship, I intertwined my fingers with the silver support bar and let myself follow the wind-blown path of the boat. When I sat in a pliable plastic tube, feeling the white sprays of water dance on my skin, I wondered if birds held so tightly onto their tenuous perches when the soaring slowed to a soft drift of air across their wings. But when I clung tightly to Desi’s life jacket as we soared towards the late afternoon sun on a wave runner, I knew then, the elusive secret that we’ve dreamed of for so long.
Isn’t it strange that revelation can be accompanied by industry? It seems wrong, somehow, to trust the divine hopes of our hearts to what our hands can create.
I wrote the above a few days ago, meaning to finish after work-- unfortunately, work is long and tiring, and I never got to it-- and now I have a cold. There’s nothing poetic about a sore throats and headaches, and just sheer tiredness that makes the world fade black momentarily whenever my eyelids feel heavy. I have lots of pictures and stories to tell, but those will just have to wait.
Suffice it to say I miss all of you, blogger-reading darlings. Maybe, when I have the coherance to take up my laptop again, I’ll say it in ways that are a little more expressive than cliched sentiments. But for now, that’s all I’m capable of.