Sundays are tough for people who are sad.
It is the one day before the week starts again.
It is the day you feel obliged to make the most of.
It is the day when the world expects you to be happy.
And yet, it is often the saddest day of the week for you when you are sad.
Sadness need not be a black hole that swallows you and everything that goes with it.
Sadness is darkness.
All it takes is a match, a torch, or a lone star to light your way back.
I love the darkness for it shows me the stars. And the moon.
I hope this makes you smile in your darkness too, if you are having a particularly sad Sunday.
Never sink down to their level is what I say to myself.
As Mark Twain once said, “Never argue with stupid people, they will drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience.”
Classiness is not letting them get to you.
Entering a conversation with an ass is the quickest way to become one.
Take out the flowers
Throw out the dirty water
Rinse out the vase
Put it away
René Ricard (1979-1980)
Everyday is a new day.
How cliché. How true.
Except I dried those flowers and locked them in a state of semi-permanence.
Cherry blossoms and its impermanence are a cruel but beautiful reminder of how fickle, fragile and finite our emotions can be. As we watch them wilt and scatter, we stand and gaze with the hope of seeing the same beauty and magnificence again one day. We cannot do the same for certain things in life.
This René Ricard poem. Its brutal simplicity speaks such truth.
A mundane act of cleaning out a vase could hold such significance.
Either that, or I am being overly dramatic and sensitive these days. Fucking hormones. And general exhaustion.