THE FAULT IN OUR STARS

*SPOILER ALERT: just like that the book ends. Which appropriately made me realize how in life a lot things are such. where they just are. they just happen. and in the hurricane of emotion we never can really see the eye of the storm of whatever is becoming until it passes, until it ends. and you will agree with me if you have indeed read the book. 

( OKAY YOU'VE PAST THE SPOILER ALERT, IT'S SAFE TO READ NOW, EXCEPT CHANCES ARE YOU MIGHT NOT REALLY UNDERSTAND WHAT I HAVE TO SAY, BUT THERE ARE ALSO CHANCES THAT YOU MIGHT) 

Once upon a time I loved to read books, I devoured them like a four course meal finishing with gelato which is my absolute favorite. And in the midst of the storm I needed something anchoring me down to someone else's reality to get away from mine, something that would act as a lighthouse, or more like a distraction, for my feelings, so I picked up this book. The history of the book and my relationship goes a little something like this: This book caught my eye in it's brightly blue cover, and handwritten title as I scanned for something to keep me company on this flight. It was my last trip home, in November, but I was too immersed in technology like I usually am and I never could talk myself into giving it a fair chance. My time was obviously spent elsewhere and I only read about three pages before I set it down and became too consumed with my own life to care about those three pages ever again. The day I turned 21, I vowed that I would educate my being with the love of literature and all things of self timed eloquence again because of someone who made a particular comment that struck something inside of me. (As I made note in the previous post, too precious at the moment to be shared with anyone except who immediately shared in it.) I found this book on top of a mountain of books, and I slipped into my own infinity.

Our lives are as romantic as we make them out to be, in our own little worlds and universes. I think of time and how time really is our best friend and our worst enemy all wrapped up into one. We have no say over her and yet she continues to run out of reach even if we so dare as to get on our hands and knees and plea and beg and protest for her to slow down, to let us catch up, to give us just more of her even though we know we will never quite have control over her. And time and time again she will never give us what we want but always what we need. We are given our hopes, our dreams, and our purest desires as long as they comply with time and her beckoning. I'm not really sure why I have this obsession of time. Not so much the clock, as so much the idea of our tiny fragmented moments that we pile together to create our lives, to create our personal infinities. I guarantee that my obsession of time then spills over to why I love photographs so much, because for a brief moment I am holding onto a tiny fragment of a moment.

I often wonder how many of us have that appetite for words and the hunger to feel so wrapped up into someone elses infinity, to get that glimpse, to see that constellation that really should only be seen by the person creating it. That's how I feel. Those words were meant for me, they embellished and embodied my love for words, and lives. There are stories that we all have to tell no matter how heroic, sad, real, nostalgic, and seemingly unimportant they can be to the person living that life.