Nobody Cares That You're Miserable, You Might As Well Be Happy
"It occurs to me that the peculiarity of most things we think of as fragile is how tough they really are. There were tricks we did with eggs, as children, to show how they were, in reality, tiny, load-bearing marble halls; while the beat of the wings of a butterfly in the right place, we are told, can create a hurricane across the ocean. Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkably difficult to kill. Stories, like people and butterflies and songbird's eggs and human hearts and dreams, are also fragile things, made up of nothing stronger or more lasting than twenty-six letters and a handful of punctuation marks. Or they are words on the air, composed of sounds and ideas-abstract, invisible, gone once they've been spoken-and what could be more frail than that? But some stories, small simple ones about setting out on adventures or people doing wonders, tales of miracles and monsters, have outlasted all the people who told them, and some have outlasted the lands in which they were created."
I live in the bucolic hills of Northwestern NJ. I love many things. Natural light, the sky, bright colors and pastels. Words. Smiles, random rainbows, gentle breezes as well as strong, gusty wind. Flowers...they rock my world. I ride a Harley Davidson with a group of ladies. I keep my camera attached to my hip.