The things that are wrong with me, and there are many, many I do not even count because they are small things and common, are things I could alter. And still I don’t, because what would I be then? I am the things that are wrong with me, and right.
I love this season. Even more so than Spring, it’s thick with anticipation. Unlike Spring, it’s not a heady expectation of light, but a weighted, somber awe. Wonderful things may happen, but they will break your heart a hundred times and you will let them do it, because what else is it for, if not to pay for wonder?