You see yourself reflected everyday; mirrors in the bathroom, shiny polished silverware, glass windows, dark pupils.
When, you ask yourself, will you ever grow up? When will you one day stop recognizing yourself when you look at your reflection, when will you grow into the beautiful woman everyon(more)e else claims you will become?
When will you succeed in conforming to society's definition of beauty?
A man who has just failed walks into a bookstore and is agitated. He does in fact want a book to read, but if he chooses the wrong one and it turns out to be depressing and badly written, well, that's not what he needs now! Everything already feels(more) depressing and badly written and if he were to read that sown on paper and he might just convince himself that's all there will ever be for him. He leaves the store in a hurry, empty handed.
The man who has just succeeded, glowing with his triumph, now matter how small, wanders on in with no objective in mind. He is living in that wonderful wake of success in which nothing is necessary and you just feel really lucky, like you can do anything and it will turn out great. Well he walks in and finds a wonderful book because he knows what wonderful things look like now, and he feels good paying for it because he knows it is exactly worth its value and he walks out and he reads it and everything he learns from that great book, along with his success, it all pushes him up just another wrung up the ladder and he marvels at this view from even higher up.(less)
I keep it to myself. Making the pretense of anger, as opposed to worry. I pretend to not have a care in the world. I walk around laughing about the ridiculousness of it all.
"How silly!" I'll exclaim.
"How stupid!" I'll interject.
(more) But my body knows. The weariness is felt deep within my aching bones.
My brain knows. The insomnia has left shadows around my eyes.
My heart knows. Despite what I demand it to do. The blasted thing still has not grown numb to that infernal crack you left.
My cloths know. I cry in my closet. I weep in front of my hanging dresses, blouses and slacks. I don't think they can see me though. I keep the light off.
You...You will never know. You will never know what you have done to me. For my worry is MY secret.
It was an icepick through his heart: longing in his heart like a rainy day in Venice. He was like that when she was far from him. Thirty more minutes, that was all he wanted. She had seemed older than she was, but still she refused him. He prayed she'd stay by him,(more) not to betray him. He ran his fingers over the numbers she'd scribbled on the bottom of a tissue box and picked up the phone. The photographs he had of the two of them together gave him the courage. He dialed the country, then area codes, and then there was a ring, and then her voice.(less)
And so how will we paint this later on? How will we dress to excuse, to hide, to cover? Or will we highlight, underline, and embellish? Will we find a way to talk about it or will words fail us when the time has come? I don't know which(more) would be the success, or which would be the failure. I know that I am playing with fire, and is success merely not getting too burned? I know that this complication is alluring, and I can't quite tell what you are pulling me into if you are pulling at all. Maybe I'm just drawing myself into the picture you have snapped. The ghost in the background of a double exposed photo. I'm the secret that you don't tell, and I'm the lies you don't explain. Don't justify your love for me, just say it never existed. Or faded away, like that picture on the Eastern wall that gets the sun all morning. Faded and hardly even recognizable anymore, and some day maybe you can say it was nothing anyway. It goes deep, deep, deep this rabbit hole, of broken hearts and things left unsaid. I wish I understood this then and I wish I understood it now. I can't be everything to everyone, but I wish I could choose what I was to you. (less)
The success of Bill Gates is amazing ,he changed the world ,
and got rich and deserved to. His wife and him are now spending their fortune on fighting disease in 3rd world countries. Probably one out of a hundred billionaires
would even consider doing that.
The success that(more) comes to people doesn't automatically
make them want to help others. In fact some become darn right cheap when it comes to spending it on anybody but themselves .
The success to some is not wealth, it is the satisfaction of achieving a goal. Like paring a18 hole golf course. Of course that is much harder then lets say inventing a computer.
The success of this project depends on you. That kind of success can give you ulcers. The success to some is getting an attractive lady to sleep with them. Of course that can turn into a disaster, when her husband walks in. But think of the success he feels that he caught her.
I'll always remember the success I felt when I was 13 and
never out of Brooklyn, and got a pail full of milk out of a cow I milked in the Catskill Mts. The success I felt when I passed my drivers test. I did have the feeling of success when I talked the cop out giving me a ticket. The success I felt, faded when I got caught shoplifting. That's life.
Finally, he stops in his tracks and whizzes the hammer across the room. It hits the brick with brutal force, a small puff of dust flying from the newly chipped wall. He takes a few labored breaths then turns to me. "You have no idea what you've done."
We stare at each other for a long time. I hear him wheeze every time he takes in air. A pile of crushed cigarette butts sit wrinkled in an ashtray on his work bench. His cell phone flipped open. The bets he's made scribbled on scraps of paper.
"You need to get help. You've lost everything..."
My father clutches his hand to his chest. He's nodding, slowly at first, then desperately. His face flushes to a deep red. Soon, he's on his knees and can barely get air.
"Dad!" I rush to his side and take him into my arms.
I look at the phone flipped open on the workbench and gently help him lay flat. I lunge for the phone and dial 911. "We need help," I plead, "my father's having a heart attack."
Then I hear the doorbell ring.
"Don't answer that!" I call up to my wife.
I pray she hears me.
Maybe my father was right. I shouldn't have gotten involved. As I look down at him, he's still struggling for air.
Then I hear my wife scream from upstairs and a lamp smash to the floor.
"Please," I beg the operator, "Please God, come quick."(less)