When I was 17-21 and madly in love, I was happy almost all the time - actually meandering between extreme happiness and extreme misery (he didn't feel the exact same way about me). Then I lost him and for the longest time I felt like I'll never be happy again because I'd defined happiness as that peak high of young love, that feeling that I'm omniscient, that I've discovered the meaning of life, and everything around me - bus stop, other people, run down dorms - was beautiful, exquisite, brimming with meaning. But of course happiness is a lot of other things I was discounting because they didn't come remotely close to those decibels of shrill joy - spending time with my friends, finding good books to read, getting better at my job, Darjeeling tea, traveling by train, inventing stories before sleep, playing with my dog, etc. etc. etc.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Thursday, June 4, 2015
След цяла сутрин hate read на мозъчни пръдни от самодоволни недорасляци, съм убедена, че светът е пълен да ръба със силно ограничени откъм гледни точки, въображение и капацитет за състрадание хора и на-доброто решение е човек да се пропие.