That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coalbins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.
I’m not going to get this precious time back. When am I ever going to have another chance to take a look at the world and decide just who I want to be—how I want to live? I can either coast through my twenties with a glass of wine in hand, making jokes about my lot in life as a single white female, or decide who I am—figure out who I want to be and become her. To love others well, celebrate often, screw the diet, and understand my own theology. Kiss the boys. Look pretty and be proud of who I’m becoming from the inside out. I don’t want to waste my time wishing I knew what the hell I believed. I need to figure it out for myself. Right now.
"We got engaged an hour ago. We were on a rooftop, and I told her I wanted to take a time lapse photo of her looking off the roof, then when she turned back around, boom."
"Were you nervous?"
"I was more nervous when I had lunch with her parents to ask for permission. I couldn’t bring myself to ask, and actually had to call them back to the table after they’d gotten up to leave."
this is so dang cute!!!