My goofiest-sounding secret is that I also believe in magic. Sometimes I call it God and sometimes I call it light, and I believe in it because every now and then I read a really good book or hear a really good song or have a really good conversation with a friend and they seem to have some kind of shine to them. The list I keep of these moments in the back of my journal is comprised less of times when I was laughing or smiling and more of times when I felt like I could feel the colors in my eyes deepening from the display before me. Times in which I felt I was witnessing an all-encompassing representation of life driven by an understanding that, coincidence or not, our existence is a peculiar thing, and perhaps the greatest way to honor it is to just be human. To be happy AND sad, and everything else. And yeah, living is a pain, and I say I hate everyone and everything, and I don’t exude much enthusiasm when sandwiched between fluorescent lighting and vinyl flooring for six hours straight, and I will probably mumble a bunch about how much I wish I could sleep forever the next time I have to wake up at 6 AM. But make no mistake about it: I really do like living. I really, truly do.
The older I get, the more I realize how difficult of a person I am to love, let alone tolerate. My mind seems to operate off of a dozen different tangents – all of which seem to have found homes on different planets. My heart is restless, but my potential is inconsistent. My mind is determined, but my confidence is volatile. As soon as I believe that I am ready to love, my heartbeat changes its pattern. As soon as I am ready to take the risk, my mind tells me to “wait a little longer”. I, of all people, yearn to believe that I possess the kind of love that is nothing short of one in a billion. In literal terms, that would be the kind of love you’d only find amongst a handful of people on this earth. I want nothing short of the possession of this kind of love tucked inside my heart. And I want nothing more than to place it in the power of your hands.
I want to be good.”
“I want to be what I admire.”
“Why don’t you want to be what you are?
Excerpt from the journal of Susan Sontag (8/7/1968, Stockholm). (via the-library-and-step-on-it)