Theres a small dry bit of sand left in my hand and it's sinking through my fingers at a speed that's a little too fast for my current liking. There's so many things to say, but so little time. There's so much to align, but it keeps getting jumbled. I feel like I don't have time to purposefully dip a book in a lake and read the crinkly pages, or be at the top of a mountain with my legs stinging. I liked how Kendis said: Don't put off doing something when the thought comes, just do it then, or you never will. Like buying a cushion for the bucket chairs, it's been 2 years, and still no cushions. When the thought comes, why don't we just do it? What else are we doing?
Despite all this, there's something about the thought of it that makes me giddy with excitement, an incredible excitement that I've never experienced before, and could never explain.
I saw this painting at the San Diego Museum of Art. It was so beautiful, it made my mother cry.
El Greco, The Penitent Saint Peter. 1590-95
