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"I'd Just Stare Out my Window..."
Dec. 10th, 2006 11:07 pmJe ne sais quois.
It's something utterly bizarre, something between ecstatic and tragic and filled with gladness and joy and also deflated with heaven only knows what. I hate depression. It does not give me anything for what it takes away from me, because my happiness just turns into guilt and my unhappiness just empties me out.
(Erin was wonderful. It was all wonderful. The candles and the music were beautiful, and the sky and the lights were beautiful, and standing in line outside the church with on glove on because I gave the other one to Waen because she was cold was beautiful. [She gets cold too easy. She has Reynaud's Syndrome, and when she's cold her blood just stops, so we always have to be careful not to let her get too cold. So I gave her one glove and Mum gave her one glove, and we stuck our other hands in our pockets.] And Erin plays the most beautiful music.)
(And I got gifts--for Mum and Waen, for Zara, for Marion and for my library--and walked around all the stores--and we went by a tent outside where a lady was selling cookies, and we each bought one, and it was so cold, and she just laughed, and made jokes, and it was wonderful; and then further on down the street a lady was looking at our cookies, so I gave her part of mine to try to see if she liked them, and she did, so I told ehr where the tent was up the street.)
(And we laughed on the way home, I read out loud and we laughed, and then when we were home we finally decorated the Christmas tree, with icicles and all our ornaments, and Zara's silver star, and the glass pinata named Mutton that Mum bought me, and all her wooden fish, and Waen's glass icicles; and we did the Poodle tree, too, with origami dragons and lace butterflies and glitter, and tiny frosted ornaments and little perfect round ones that are full whole colours--and Daddy made a fire, and I wrapt all my presents and put half of them under the tree; and I wrote my letters, and read the books on Manet and Cezanne that I got from the library [I like Manet more than Cezanne]; and carved a face into an orange, and we were so happy.)
(This is why I wish I were not sad now. It's such a disappointment.)
It's something utterly bizarre, something between ecstatic and tragic and filled with gladness and joy and also deflated with heaven only knows what. I hate depression. It does not give me anything for what it takes away from me, because my happiness just turns into guilt and my unhappiness just empties me out.
(Erin was wonderful. It was all wonderful. The candles and the music were beautiful, and the sky and the lights were beautiful, and standing in line outside the church with on glove on because I gave the other one to Waen because she was cold was beautiful. [She gets cold too easy. She has Reynaud's Syndrome, and when she's cold her blood just stops, so we always have to be careful not to let her get too cold. So I gave her one glove and Mum gave her one glove, and we stuck our other hands in our pockets.] And Erin plays the most beautiful music.)
(And I got gifts--for Mum and Waen, for Zara, for Marion and for my library--and walked around all the stores--and we went by a tent outside where a lady was selling cookies, and we each bought one, and it was so cold, and she just laughed, and made jokes, and it was wonderful; and then further on down the street a lady was looking at our cookies, so I gave her part of mine to try to see if she liked them, and she did, so I told ehr where the tent was up the street.)
(And we laughed on the way home, I read out loud and we laughed, and then when we were home we finally decorated the Christmas tree, with icicles and all our ornaments, and Zara's silver star, and the glass pinata named Mutton that Mum bought me, and all her wooden fish, and Waen's glass icicles; and we did the Poodle tree, too, with origami dragons and lace butterflies and glitter, and tiny frosted ornaments and little perfect round ones that are full whole colours--and Daddy made a fire, and I wrapt all my presents and put half of them under the tree; and I wrote my letters, and read the books on Manet and Cezanne that I got from the library [I like Manet more than Cezanne]; and carved a face into an orange, and we were so happy.)
(This is why I wish I were not sad now. It's such a disappointment.)
