Wednesday, January 12, 2011
above the fog
The similarities between San Francisco and Istanbul this morning end with the melancholic, melodic azan being sung somewhere beneath the fog. The past three weeks have melted into some kind of blurry dream, and as I sit here by the window, it hardly seems possible that they ever took place. In many ways I wish they hadn't; I would still have my grandad, but such wishes are pointless as this is precisely life. It comes and goes, much faster than we would like— which is why we must always do whatever we can to make what we have as beautiful and as true for ourselves as possible. Life has suffering and tremendous beauty— no matter how painful or ugly things can get, we must always remember great joys and wonderful things lie just on the other side, and are carried with us in our hearts through the hardship. There is always poetry, there is always love.