21i carry your heart with me by ee cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
(pic from mariekristel)
I miss Turtur. :( When I was little, my dad got me a huge turtle stuffed toy from Bangkok that looked kind of like this, only in red. I was about two years old then and was already a reader so it frustrated me that my playmates couldn’t say “turtle”. So we ended up naming him Turtur. Before I’d go to sleep, I’d position him, Karen (my talking doll) and Simboo (my lion stuffed toy) on the windowsill so they can look at the moon—and warn me if a mumu is coming. :D
Petrichor is the name of the scent of rain on dry earth.
From http://www.lettersofnote.com:
In 1952, Ronald Reagan and Nancy Davis married. In 1972, prior to their 20th anniversary, Reagan - then Governor of California - wrote the following letter to his wife.
—-
State of California
GOVERNOR’S OFFICE
SACRAMENTO 95814
RONALD REAGAN
GOVERNOR
My Darling Wife
This note is to warn you of a diabolical plot entered into by some of our so called friends - (ha!) calendar makers and even our own children. These and others would have you believe we’ve been married 20 years.
20 minutes maybe - but never 20 years. In the first place it is a known fact that a human cannot sustain the high level of happiness I feel for more than a few minutes - and my happiness keeps increasing.
I will confess to one puzzlement but I’m sure it is just some trick perpetrated by our friends - (Ha again!) I can’t remember ever being without you and I know I was born more than 20 mins ago.
Oh well - that isn’t important. The important thing is I don’t want to be without you for the next 20 years, or 40, or however many there are. I’ve gotten very used to being happy and I love you very much indeed.
Your Husband of 20 something or other.
What’s the difference?
Everything’s the same, but different. That doesn’t make any sense, huh? Well, it’s a fitting statement, really, if I think about how, despite the effort we put into forgetting, we can still read each other’s thoughts and actions well—but there are random pauses between words and hesitation between gestures that neither of us can interpret.
You still call me that silly moniker you came up with after I sang in public for the first time, but you hastily look down each time you do, fearing I’d snap and say you no longer have the right to call me a name that evokes memories of a different person in a different time. I still use your spectacles to look at online visual puzzles with you but, now, I ask you before I do because I realize what’s yours is no longer mine and vice-versa. I still whine to you about my day, but I try to keep it short because you’re no longer obliged to listen. You still say “I missed you today” but there’s a wistfulness in your voice that tells me you intend to do nothing more than say things to remind me of what was.
It’s still you and it’s still me. It’s us together that’s different.
Anyway, I’m running on three hours of sleep and coffee. Night, world.
from itswongwhenitsright:
Dear…
Oh, that’s right.
Forgive me. I do not know your name. Or if I do, I don’t know which one it is in the sea of names sloshing around in my mind.
As of this writing, I have lived eighteen years without you. Eighteen wonderful, excellent, irreplaceable years. Every single one of them had turned out exactly as I had hoped, nearly as I had expected. That’s how I live. I live close to my expectations. I never go too far from the sidewalk.
And there you are, somewhere in existence, about to swoop in on me from oblivion — about to crash into my life and leave me dazed, angry, weeping, vulnerable, and afraid.
I’ll be honest with you. I cannot wait. I cannot wait for you to come and mess up my life.
Because if you are who I think you are, then I can do it. I can surpass anything you will throw at me.
For I will love you.
I may have never crossed paths with you at all yet. I also may have been hanging unwittingly around you all this time. We may be best friends. We may be worst enemies. We may not notice each other in the corridors. I may have just ignored your Facebook friend request, or you mine.
I ask — no, I beg. I beg for a hint, a sign, a clue — perhaps anything. Because I need someone to write beautiful poems about; to annoy everyday through SMS; to keep in mind when composing vague, mushy Tumblr posts; to look small in one of my T-shirts (when we get married, of course); to whom I and my kids can serve a burnt and soggy breakfast-in-bed on Mother’s Day; to fix my tie before a medical conference; to have.
You’re out there, somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. I hope you know how excited I am to meet you. You are the most beautiful thing that will ever happen to me, after all.
I am so excited to love you.
You don’t know how sincerely,
Sheldon
