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Wasted Joy

The lid of his coffee was streaked with caramel sauce, the whipped cream separated neatly. My lid was smeared with the whipped cream that I wished had followed my coffee down (sugar feeling precious and fleeting) but didn’t.

I shivered in the spring breeze, wishing I hadn’t removed my extra layer, but relieved I had removed myself of the work-related branding, shedding the last 9 hours from my person.

We tried hard to ignore the cacophony of teenagers around us, reminding us of our not so distant youth. Clattering skateboards and tumbling BMX bikes, their riders shouting and catcalling to another group behind us. We also waited, in the most adult, parental way, for a sudden thud or crack of a breaking arm or worse, not bearing to watch each fall from higher and higher vantages. 

He lamented his feeling of powerlessness, his lack of control in his own life, his notion of unfulfilled promise, of the stretch of his life behind him, and the fragility of his own mortality. The death of his father had brought these things into crystalline focus and magnified the fear that was once nonexistent - that was once the boisterous arrogance of youth - and expanded it into an all-encompassing panic of mortality and depression. 

His monologue reflected a version my own regrets, my own hopes and wishes, but I said little, for it wasn’t the time for me to speak, for me to lament my lost dreams and yet to be fulfilled ambitions. 

In me he seemed to see some promise that I had satisfied, that I had met some unspoken requirements of becoming a successful adult, though to me, in my own way, I felt I had yet to even try.

Somehow, in the decade and a half since we met, we had changed so utterly and completely and yet not at all. We were still a constant in each other’s lives, albeit with a brief respite during which I dropped myself into the cavernous void of an abusive (ex)husband, eating disorders and self-loathing. His once impetuous and jovial manners, the characteristic attitude of someone constantly playing a role, being what he thinks he should to everyone else, combined with his lofty dreams, are now stifled under the weight of the world that he feels he is drowning in. We are not the same people, and yet I see glimpses of who we were as we laugh (sometimes sardonically) at the world around us. We still meet for coffee to discuss our existential crises, though he no longer draws on my lid in spidery script and our surroundings are vacant of the falsified world of academia.

Our friendship, built upon the promise and hope of youth, solidified in the foundations of shared disillusion, bears the weight of our regrets and hopes.  

My words, normally more eloquent and helpful escaped me as the spring wind whipped around us, smelling of newness and life. 

How can you convince someone that they are a lifetime yet to be lived, filled with promise and unfulfilled joy? That the dreams of youth, though not enacted upon, are still alive and vibrant, if only you let them breathe? As long as you wake in the morning, each day is ripe with opportunity, alive with passion and vibrancy, if only you allow yourself to embrace it?

The things that I learned during our brief hiatus showed me more than I ever wanted to learn. It made me into a person that I didn’t want to be. I allowed myself to become bitter and unhappy, pushing away the joy that I could possess because I felt I couldn’t change. The duty that I had entrenched myself in felt beyond repair, beyond saving. I would die - perhaps in 60 years - utterly miserable, regretting my whole life. If I didn’t make a change, I would perish slowly, rotting with regret. It wasn’t until I decided that I would be happy, that I would embrace my life and become the next version of myself, that I still had promise and potential, and that I didn’t have to live my life unhappy and miserable, that I turned the corner and began to see the hope and beauty in the world around me. 

I give no allotment of myself to regret. Regret you of joy. Regret buries you in its cave, whispering and manipulating and wrapping up your soul in darkness until the beautiful things around you are dull and tarnished, and you cannot see them for the wondrous beauty that they possess. 

Joy is found in the smallest things. The love of a friend, good cup of coffee, the smile of your beloved, the laugh of your child. 

Life is beautiful, wondrous, and full of promise - but only if you allow it to be. 

http://fanserviced.com/post/82242930185/geekylittlewhovian-replied-to-your-post-makeup-at

fanserviced:

geekylittlewhovian replied to your post: Makeup at TheFaceShop.

In the event I make it to NYC, I’m going to need you to take me to these shops. All of them.

AHAHAHAH—TOTALLY! Remember when I was obsessed with scarves? Well…I still am…but anyway—I feel the same way about Korean makeup…

I totally have a picture of you all wrapped up in a scarf at that pizza place in Nice. God that was good pizza. 

But seriously, I’m going to need some help with a good red lipstick that doesn’t turn pink with my skin tone. It always turns pink!

popculturebrain:

Trailer: ‘Wish I Was Here' - July 25

Written by Zach Braff and Adam Braff, directed by Zach Braff, starring Braff, Mandy Patinkin, Kate Hudson, Donald Faison, Jim Parsons, Josh Gad, Joey King and Pierce Gagnon.

There seems to be a very clear straight line from ‘Garden State’ to this. The visuals and themes presented in this mostly visual trailer echo Braff’s first effort, but take a step forward to expand upon it. The Shins song (obviously) goes a long way in setting this up as well. All that said, your mileage may vary depending on how you feel about Braff.

twinkletwinklelittlefuckingstar:

chocolatechilipepper:

shelbysbutt:

aanubis:

ungrammaticholiday:

yggdrasilly:

christmasblogger:

Penguin falls down resulting in best sound ever [x]

oh my god

NOOOOOOO

they all gasped like OHHH

IM CRYING IM PHYSICALLY CRYING HE FALLS AND THERE ALL LIKE WHAAAAWHOA U OK BRO AND HE GETS UP LIKE *SIGH* YEAH ITS FINE

if you ever reblog this and I don’t laugh like a dying horse at it, assume without question that I have been replaced by an alien

And another reason why I want to be a Penguin!

archiemcphee:

Even if the closest you’ve ever gotten to a potter’s wheel is watching the movie Ghost, you’ve got a general idea of how the device works. A wet lump of clay is placed on the surface of a spinning wheel and molded using the artists hands and tools. But today we’ve learned that the potter’s wheel itself can be used to create awesomely hypnotic visual art.

In this mesmerizing video, entitled Dance on the Circle, Mikhail Sadovnikov creates a seemingly endless series of kaleidoscopic patterns in the “wet clay sludge (called slip)” on an empty potter’s wheel.

[via Colossal]

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