Monday, February 3, 2014

35. I Love ... picking up a book that I've written in many years ago.


I love reading it.

I don't technicallylove the fact that all that "time" is being held in my hands;
that it's contained between two covers;
that has gone too quickly.
Ridiculously quickly.

I suppose it's better than not being able to hold it at all.

It slips through our fingers.
Gone.
Just like that.

I picked up a book that I had written sporadically in
way back in 1970.

I wish I had written more.

Sometimes I surprise myself with my writing.
Literally.

I am surprised that I have captured my thoughts
fairly effectively.

I am surprised how a particular day can be 
totally brought back;
how I can revisit it completely.
Good or bad.

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