Every second that passes is one more second of my life gone
One more second I have experienced
And one more second I will never get back
So it has been a week. Since I got dumped. Six days since he last spoke to me. About 24 hours since I last cried. But today, I woke up with an unblocked nose and a happier throat, and the sun was out, and although I ran late for everything I had to do, it was still fine. I had a really nice acupuncture session, and great lunch with a new friend of mine, C, who I’ve known since first year but just recently really, really clicked with.
You know when you walk past flowers on the road every day every day and you never think I should lean it and take a whiff. And then you do.
You know when you know you are déchirée but you know the sun the sun is too good for you to steep yourself in gloom. One person may have broken you but the sun will warm your crackling bones.
And I’ve just finished my French work, and I’ve already gotten readings for an essay due in two weeks, I’m on track, I’m doing fine, I’m doing good, and I sit here in my fuzzy slippers and I think that even my toe will get better. Though I swear if I have to dance this heavily again next week I may need a toe transplant. Two blisters in two weeks makes for a hobbly Marty.
I love the sun. This is why I will never like in Canada or England, where winter pretty much dominates all other seasons. I can’t handle the grim, glum cold. The greyness tints my soul. I know that sounds awfully dramatic, but it’s how I feel.
I don’t want to censor myself.
I’m going to rehearsal now. Then dinner here, then Cow Moon Theory with C and other people who are escaping the drunken jock revels of this Intervarsity weekend at Rhodes. Strength and all sorts of shiny things. AND I have money! So totally rocking brownies with ice cream toniiiight!