Layers
This world is shit and it depresses the hell out of me and I hate everyone and everything. A gazillion awful things happen every second and why even bother waking up.
But then there’s my 10YO, who yesterday referred to the shelves in my bookcase as layers. And it was so sweet to me, just so simple and innocent, the layers of my bookcase? it made a flutter in my heart. How dumb right? But don’t you think it’s sweet? Don’t you just ache from the sweetness of it? I don’t have shelves of books, I have layers of books, and well, I love it. Why do I find this so tender? I don’t know. But I do and it just kills me. I want us to stay in our own little bubble forever, where nothing dirty can get in and ruin us. I mean it’s too late right. I know. we are all already ruined. Broken and charred. But I’m just going to hold this memory for a little longer, because I like it so much, it makes me feel less angry, for a breath or two.