romanticizing kills curiosity

Dear Heart,

I wanna take it back. Back to the places and the times where the people of our world were infinite. A place where as detrimental as our society is, did not impact the way they wished to live.

Chalk drawn towns and paper planes circulating the room. Primary colored foam puzzle boards imprinting the shape of my feet and toes while wiggling my head and shoulders just enough to get the energy out.

I miss the days where it seemed so simple to have the effortless energy to do the things that made me curious. Sometimes it is of interest to me to walk down the roads and streets of this town in desire to know how it all started. Who thought it to be the place they believed was appropriate to reside? In what ways does someone become strong enough to build the base land of a future metropolis?

The second someone was curious enough to start something new.

The things that are different from our upbringing is what intrigues us the most. The crinkle of the books in the library as you open to sniff the aged printed pages. My grandmother’s ring as I would be so excited to be given the chance to have actually met her. Talked with her. Learned from her.

As the aching moments pass of the desire to see my parents again after a long time apart, I have been curious of the new and the old. The stories and the moments that are with held in every single photograph that exists. The noises and tones of the bombings, gunshots, tears, wailing, laughter, speeches, tires screeching against the asphalt, birds chirping as they simply clasp onto a telephone wire, journalists increasingly becoming more and more stressed as they type away in the news rooms of Wall Street, Marilyn Monroe blowing a kiss at the president with a flirtatious giggle. All of these things we cannot hear within a photograph. The fingerprints that lay imprinted upon the surface of the clay and slip sculpted mugs, kettles, and plates. We cannot feel the warmth of the artists’ hands. The curiosity that my mother and father have always wished upon me has finally won and when the day comes to where I see them again; they will see, and I will learn.

Everything can be a story and everything will be a story. It is of the strength of your curiosity, to listen. To learn. To give. To perceive. It is the strength of your curiosity, to see not only what you think you see. It is much deeper than that. Every rip and crinkle in a book, every run down 925 sterling silver stamp, every crease in every shoe, every old school box of weakened brittle crayons, every signature carved into the metal of a bicycle: is to be perceived by the curious for the curious to understand that these things are so much deeper than that.

With love,

Corissa