I cut my finger today as I was organizing old photographs with my family. It was a photo of my younger cousin, Sid, who was most probably two or three at the time. He was sitting on an old sofa in our apartment in Edison, and looked quite defiant in pair of blue rain boots and bright turquoise overalls. The funny thing about the shot is that the sun was shining only on his eyes and nose, and the rest of the living room had this dark orange tint. He has big lips, Sid does. I think it runs in my family.
Is it too much to ask for an apology, maybe some repentance? Or possibly some sort of sign that whatever occurred in the past was a mistake? I believe so. It sort of is sad to be a lone-star. One never really knows what else is happening in the world besides in the one he holds dear to himself. This year revolves around midnight study sessions, warm tea, and my bedroom. Just me, myself, and I.
These days in which I am stuck inside my house for prolonged periods of time, I think. About life, and death, and everything in between. "Everything happens for a reason." I am horrible with the word trust. I cringe at the fact that people around the world mourn for weeks over somebody they were close to, and then take no time whatsoever to forgive when that person crawls right back to them.
Am I the worst kind of person imaginable? One who only wants what is fair. Or, possibly, a lost soul who wants nothing but peace. How quaint.
All we can do now, my dear Watson, is wait.
