I don’t read blogs often. I’m always afraid the way they arrange their words, their prose would desensitize my own. The ones I’ve read tell me things I don’t care to pay attention to anyway, really. I know that sounds mean, but I just don’t have an opinion about their day. I certainly don’t write into my blog the way I do because I think it’ll attract readers, it’s a place to let my thoughts go. So I’ve got the same view when looking at others. But I found one last night (while searching for something completely different), one that chronicled all the things I don’t normally care about. I read years into this person’s posts and I fell in love.
She sounded like the part of me that died long ago. (That’s bad writing, right? ha!) But she made me feel that all the unfortunate things that had happened to her, was undeserved. A person so sweet hit with all the bitters, yet she held, and I mean grasped on for dear life, this bright and positive outlook. I had no choice but to fall in love, and I fell deeper with every posting I read. I didn’t hold on for dear life like she did.
In a secular sense, she chose faith while I chose fear. She passed and I didn’t. You know why they have ribbons for colon cancer and liver cancer and other cancers except lung cancer? It’s because people believe they deserve it, that they did this to themselves. It’s not the cancer that kills a lung cancer patient, it’s the guilt that kills them. Guilt told me to let go and fall into the dark. (Yes I’ve become a better writer because of it, but it is expensive. That whole sadness and despair thing as inspiration is bullshit, don’t believe it. The art was already there, your ability to live tells you how you’ll translate it.)
I fell in love with her through her blog because it showed me how beautiful I could have been, had I have just held on a tiny bit longer. When you’re dead, you can only be loved, but you can’t return it. Maybe her words are the fingers reaching down to pull me up, and she’ll never know how happy her little fingers made me.