pleasefindthis's Blog: Written On The Side Of The Page , page 34
February 14, 2014
理論終究只是理論
如果我眨眼眨得夠多•也許我會醒來•然後你 仍會睡在我身邊•
February 13, 2014
The Angle At Which We Are All Judged
If you mean it, say it. If you say it, do it. If you don't, then leave it.
親愛的，這是寫給你的________
A complex Chinese translation of I Wrote This For You has been published in Taiwan, click here or on the link in the sidebar to pick it up. (We don't really know much about the distribution of this edition right now. Anything that you can tell us from reading the publishers homepage, or asking around, would actually be really helpful.)
February 12, 2014
The Heart Outgrows The Chest
The further inside you hide the hurt, the more it hurts inside.All wounds need air to heal.
February 11, 2014
Some Notes On My Father
My father was sick for 35 years and one day he just didn’t wake up. His skin in the funeral home is the coldest thing I’ve ever touched.
The rest of what I write will fill in the gaps between those two points but those two points are all that remain once you take everything else away.
My father, an immigrant from England (strange, I know) to South Africa, met my mother, from South West Africa (now Namibia) more than 40 years ago, at the church where we had his funeral service. She pointed out the gate where they first spoke.
At the age of 32, my father was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. A year later, I was born. I can remember him walking with crutches but I’m not sure if the memories are real anymore or just memories of memories. Now I mostly remember him in his wheelchair or, more recently, in his bed.
My father, as he got worse, was given the option of early retirement due to disability but opted not to take it so that he could better support my mother, my brother and me. So for the rest of his working life, as the disease took more and more from him, my mother and him would wake up earlier and earlier, so she could help him get ready in time to go to work.
The engineers at the car factory where he worked built a machine that fitted on the roof of his car, that lifted the wheelchair up off the ground when he left home and put it back down again when he got to work.
I watched him drown in his own body, slowly, over decades and I have never loved or respected a greater or stronger man.
My father would force waiters and ushers and my brother and me to carry him into restaurants and movie theatres if there were steps in the way because he would be damned if he was going to let his disability get in the way of a good meal or a half-decent movie.
Most, if not all of the restaurants and movie theatres in my hometown have wheelchair ramps, because of my father.
And he taught me to laugh at the world. Laugh at anything that hurts, laugh at anything that tries to bring you down, just fucking laugh at it. My father taught me all the crudest jokes I know when I was still a child.
He never wanted any pity, just the laughter and happiness of his family.
His voice started getting softer each time I visited and I started clenching my fist and my jaw at the thought of him trapped in his own body, unable to talk. But it never got to that. He left before it could take anymore.
When I touched his skin in the funeral home, it felt like the cold became a part of my fingers but I couldn’t stop because whenever I used to see him, I’d move his hair and touch his face because he couldn’t do it himself and now this was the last chance I’d ever have to do it and so I let the cold become a part of me because I owed him that much at least.
For showing me where real, true strength comes from. For loving me and teaching me to love others, regardless of their circumstance.
So I’ll be back, properly, soon. Otherwise I wouldn’t be his son.
The rest of what I write will fill in the gaps between those two points but those two points are all that remain once you take everything else away.
My father, an immigrant from England (strange, I know) to South Africa, met my mother, from South West Africa (now Namibia) more than 40 years ago, at the church where we had his funeral service. She pointed out the gate where they first spoke.
At the age of 32, my father was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. A year later, I was born. I can remember him walking with crutches but I’m not sure if the memories are real anymore or just memories of memories. Now I mostly remember him in his wheelchair or, more recently, in his bed.
My father, as he got worse, was given the option of early retirement due to disability but opted not to take it so that he could better support my mother, my brother and me. So for the rest of his working life, as the disease took more and more from him, my mother and him would wake up earlier and earlier, so she could help him get ready in time to go to work.
The engineers at the car factory where he worked built a machine that fitted on the roof of his car, that lifted the wheelchair up off the ground when he left home and put it back down again when he got to work.
I watched him drown in his own body, slowly, over decades and I have never loved or respected a greater or stronger man.
My father would force waiters and ushers and my brother and me to carry him into restaurants and movie theatres if there were steps in the way because he would be damned if he was going to let his disability get in the way of a good meal or a half-decent movie.
Most, if not all of the restaurants and movie theatres in my hometown have wheelchair ramps, because of my father.
And he taught me to laugh at the world. Laugh at anything that hurts, laugh at anything that tries to bring you down, just fucking laugh at it. My father taught me all the crudest jokes I know when I was still a child.
He never wanted any pity, just the laughter and happiness of his family.
His voice started getting softer each time I visited and I started clenching my fist and my jaw at the thought of him trapped in his own body, unable to talk. But it never got to that. He left before it could take anymore.
When I touched his skin in the funeral home, it felt like the cold became a part of my fingers but I couldn’t stop because whenever I used to see him, I’d move his hair and touch his face because he couldn’t do it himself and now this was the last chance I’d ever have to do it and so I let the cold become a part of me because I owed him that much at least.
For showing me where real, true strength comes from. For loving me and teaching me to love others, regardless of their circumstance.
So I’ll be back, properly, soon. Otherwise I wouldn’t be his son.
February 10, 2014
The Image Repeated Over And Over
When you let go, it wasn't a rock falling to the ground. It was a balloon, rising from a child's hand.
February 7, 2014
The Removal Of Me
I know what you feel, when you've got nothing left to feel.
February 6, 2014
The Place I Do Not Rest
Dress your heart and mind in what you love, fill your eyes with wonder and chase the things that inspire and delight you.For in you, is where I still live.
February 5, 2014
The Desperate And Confused
Even if you write down everything that's ever crossed your heart, there will still come a day when none of your words can explain how you feel.
February 3, 2014
The Glaring White Beyond Heartbreak
Beyond heartbreak, lies soulbreak, which is when you cannot spend time with someone, not because you and them have chosen to part ways, but because they no longer inhabit the Earth.
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