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you can’t take a picture of this

10 Mar

Daniel took me to dinner in town at a place called Town. The salad was my favorite part, and though the chicken was good, I wished there were less meaty selections for entrees. When trying new or fancy foods, I’ve found it helpful and fun to pretend to be a judge for a Food Network culinary competition. They are so brave.

Bravery is weird. I haven’t thought enough about it to determine whether or not the type of bravery involved in trying new foods is the same as Harry’s when he goes back to the Forbidden Forest to confront death. It would seem more thoughtful and literary for me to say they are the same, but when I’m tired and my thoughts are too scattered to gather, they are very different and my fear of adulthood seems like a simple thing to overcome. But that’s not even what I mean. I don’t know what I mean. I think I want to say that we’re all brave to be here, to listen to each other and to share ourselves with one another. We’re brave for caring, because in doing so, we’re vulnerable to disappointment or love.

I really don’t know what I’m saying now. I usually blog before midnight because I’m more sane then. And it’s twenty-nine minutes past twelve now and I’m lying on my stomach on the floor of my bedroom, trying to write something meaningful from stale ideas. (I will change the date to March 10th when I publish this, because I haven’t slept yet. And when only when I sleep does it become tomorrow.) It’s dark and I barely feel awake. I’ll wake up tomorrow morning with a strange feeling in my stomach like I’d been somewhere I’d imagined before, a ledge on the side of the mountain overlooking the black sea, quiet and dark, and the moon bright behind a thick layer of grey, captured in a picture, but not quite beautiful as I’ll remember it.

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