03 January 2009 4:47 PM
One hundred and six
No matter what Mr. Philosopher Next Door thought, there were things I knew for sure: That I had been loved, once, and had loved back. That a person could find hope in the way a weed grew. That the sum of a man's life was not where he wound up but in the details that brought him there.
That we made mistakes.
I closed my eyes, sick of the riddles, and to my surprise all I could see were dandelions-as if they had been painted on the fields of my imagination, a hundred thousand suns. And I remembered something else that makes us human: faith, the only weapon in our arsenal to battle doubt.
Suddenly I dislike weekends, because weekends make me procrastinate.
As much as I want the big day tomorrow, I want Monday to start rolling.
And I want school to keep rolling too, ironically.
No matter what Mr. Philosopher Next Door thought, there were things I knew for sure: That I had been loved, once, and had loved back. That a person could find hope in the way a weed grew. That the sum of a man's life was not where he wound up but in the details that brought him there.
That we made mistakes.
I closed my eyes, sick of the riddles, and to my surprise all I could see were dandelions-as if they had been painted on the fields of my imagination, a hundred thousand suns. And I remembered something else that makes us human: faith, the only weapon in our arsenal to battle doubt.
Suddenly I dislike weekends, because weekends make me procrastinate.
As much as I want the big day tomorrow, I want Monday to start rolling.
And I want school to keep rolling too, ironically.
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