Yes, somehow I've been to heaven...
And today my fingers are itchy to write something new again. I can't help it. Sad to say, I couldn't. Nevertheless, I am so fulfilled that finally I am able to gather all the thougths that I picked from the words of Mitch Albom, one of my newly admired authors, I can say. In spite the stress that I encountered from the heavy-workload weeks, you still could be able to find me reading this -- in the passenger bus on my way to and from the office, inside my room before and after going to sleep, etc.
Thanks to Juvy, a friend who gave me this book entitled, "The Five People You Meet in Heaven" which makes me kinda interested again in reading fictions, something that I can describe now as a creative representation of life's true lessons.
Here again are some thougths to share. I hope you learn something from it as I did. Carpe Diem...because life is short.
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It might seem to start a story with an ending. But all endings are beginning. We just don't know it at the time.
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No story sits by itself. Sometimes stories meet at corners and sometimes they cover one another completely, like stones beneath a river.
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No life is a waste...The only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we are alone.
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People think of heaven as a paradise garden, a place where they can float on clouds and laze in rivers and mountains. But scenery without solace is meaningless.
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One withers, another grows. Birth and death are part of a whole.
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Dying? Not the end of everything. We think it is. But what happens on earth is only the beginning.
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Sacrifice is a part of life. It is supposed to be. It's not something to regret. It is something to aspire to. Little sacrifices. Big Sacrifices...
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All parents damage their children. It can't be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of their handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, and few shatters childhood completely in jagged little pieces, beyond repair.
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Parents let go of their children, so children let go of them. They move on. They move away. The moments that used to define them -- a mother's approval, a father's nod -- are covered by their own accomplishments. It is not until much later, as the skin sags and the heart weakens, that children understand; their stories, and all other accomplishments, sit atop the stories of their mothers and fathers, sit atop the stones, beneath the waters of their lives.
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Holding anger is poison. It eats you from inside. We think that hating is a weapon that attacks the person who harmed us. But hatred is a curved blade. And the harm that we do, we do to ourselves.
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People say that they "find" love, as if it where an object hidden by a rock. But love takes many forms, and it is never the same for any man and woman. What people find then is a certain love.
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Love, like rain, can nourish from above, drenching couples with soaking joy. But sometimes, under the angry heat of life, love dries on the surface, and must nourish from below, tending to its roots, keeping itself alive.
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Lost love is still love...It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile and bring them food or tousle their hair or move around a dance floor. But ehrn those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.
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Life has to end. Love doesn't.
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Silence is worse when you know it won't be broken...
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