Tags: Things Person
To do things for other people, no promise of anything else; that's how I've come to understand love. Such compassion, little pink and cel-shaded hearts that rise from the heat of a freshly-cooked meal or that float to the ceiling from the base of a broom sweeping first here then there, drawing circles on the floor and caught up in the punity of cleaning a house.
Considering other people's feelings is a matter which I think I've neglected until recently. Is this a true mark of character? In that the realization of this I've somehow developed as a person? I could never forget this mark, this much rings true:
I want to make more moments like this; I want you to feel that warmth rising in your boy-ish chest, rising so slowly yet so surely to your height, thumping so hard along the way that it would surely choke your words and make you blush crimson.
Every person without his edge, every floor without its creak: an ideal world that only lives in the imagination can only torment us if we do not realize its impracticality. But if instead we do see it, then...
...then our visions could be the key to understanding our selves.
There's something important that I needed to say but other things are demanding my attention. What a shame that there are only 24 hours in a day.
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