My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Everyday Moments
You can always find someone to share the extremes, either of joy or sadness. In crisis or celebration, you need not be so alone. But here is no one to share everyday aspects, to hear or make observations on nothing so profound. There is no one participating with you in the moments of which life is truly composed, and so they may become the saddest times of all.
Labels:
loneliness,
sadness
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