My favorite fireworks are the really, REALLY big ones that when they blow up it feels like you get punched in the chest.
Tonight I had a nice little laugh. One of those big ones shot up, blew up, hit me in the face and left a car alarm screaming to the silence in between fireworks. I enjoy little things like that.
I hope to one day witness, even experience, a noisebleed caused by one of the big ones.
Well, it’s 12:21am, July 5th, and I’m sitting, yet again, at my desk feeling like I had something relevant to say, but yet again, coming up short.
After two nights of fire works … this time Johnny Cake being better than Bloomington for once … I’ve come to the same conclusion I come to every year … I love fireworks!
I always have and probably always will … that is of course unless I have some sort of traumatic experience with them, forcing me to fear being near and seeing fireworks for the rest of my life. Hopefully that won’t happen.
But every year at this explosive and for some kids out there, fingerless time, I snap back to certain memories.
And I briefly soak in the moment and remember what those feelings were like.
I let my mind drift and think of the “What if…”s
Then, snapping back to reality, I scratch the top of my nose and let myself soak in the quick colors.
I wouldn’t violently oppose another “Maybe”, but still, we’re on different pages and feeling die when you don’t water them.
“What if…”s are a waste of time and you’ll never be happy with who you are or where you are in life.
I’m content with who I am and where I am, mostly. There’s always room for improvement.
In other news… Darci will be in town in… well, just start counting the hours… minutes maybe.
You’ll be left with a little something Big Poppa sent me from Psalm 90
“You turn men back to dust, saying, “Return to dust, O sons of men.” For a thousand years in your sight are like a day that has just gone by, or like a watch in the night. You sweep men away in the sleep of death; they are like the new grass of the morning— though in the morning it springs up new, by evening it is dry and withered….The length of our days is seventy years— or eighty, if we have the strength; yet their span is but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass, and we fly away….Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”
With Love and most of everything else
The Middle One