I was about to say I’m amateur at saying goodbyes but I’m not. I’m a veteran thanks to sixteen moves in my life. And who is really good at saying bye anyway? I could write about how unfair life is or why angelic people often go through hell while the lukewarm spirits sit and complain of self-induced loneliness and homework. But I’ll just leave it at that and let my fingers tell you that there is a deep, resonating stillness that comes in the best of times and in the worst of times. (Copyright Charles Dickens)
And so tonight is spent frenetically chopping onions that give me an excuse to wet my eyes a bit and breathing in the embracing aromas of food Emeril envisioned. I feel as though I could be an American in Paris (Copyright Gene Kelly), sitting in a hidden Parisian cafe, writing poetry and musing on the bittersweet loneliness life brings to us; I feel strangely grateful at the chance to be a different shade of passionate.
I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen, for the incredibly self-indulgent post. I will spend my time searching the caverns of my wit for some amusing anecdote for the next time.