Spring is intoxicating, beautiful and glorious and full of optimism. For some reason, these happy feelings brought e.e. cummings into my mind. I set out looking for a different poem entirely, but when I saw this image, I swiped it.
Further Googling (I'm quite sure this will become it's own verb) showed a hand-written copy of one of his poems by a man named Michael John March. His brother obviously loved him terribly much, set up this memorial page for him. And now, due to a random happenstance of clicking on things, now I am aware of and will remember him, though to me, he may as well be a dream.
Is it ridiculous for me to be such a sentimental, sappy, bleeding heart? Sometimes I feel like a must appear mad to other people, especially people more practical people, who would never give a second thought to the world's loss of someone they will never know.
I suppose I would rather be overcome with feelings as opposed to incapable of feeling them, even if I get hurt because of it. I would rather be hurt by opening myself up to the world, to life, to humanity... than to be lost in a crowd of numbness and indifference.
And so I say to you, whomever you might me, that I love you, and that I would give you a huge hug if you needed it, or my last dollar if you asked. Because after all, can't our life be measured by the amount of kindness we put into the world?
