This I Share

This Is All held a real surprise for anyone who's read all the other books in the Dance-seqence. Wow. And I dunno why I started crying either, it wasn't such a big deal. Not like the overwhelmings of Dance on my Grave or The Toll Brigde. Maybe because everything is so perfect. Not happy shiny perfect, but right. I want to write like this, not copying his style, but the impact it makes on... reality? Me. There are things I don't like about how and what he writes sometimes. But then comes these moments, like watching your lover as the sunlight creeps over their sleeping face, and then... no wham, no lighbulb of revelation, but... suddenly everything is just... everything is forgiven. Everything just is.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about here, go to a library, borrow any book by Aidan Chambers, read... and be ashamed that you hadn't already.

And I haven't actually watched a lover as sunlight creeps over their face. =P But I don't know if you'd understand what I'm trying to say, if I'd said like watching your cat close his eyes and tuck his nose under his paw, or like throwing a glance over your shoulder and seeing those blonde spikes and angel wings next to you, or like watching eight huge, dirty machines spit newspapers on a production line surrounded by deafening thundering, because these feelings are special, and what makes us feel them is individual. Weird, isn't it? Because they're so grand, I'm sad sometimes that I can't share them.

Well... that's what I'm trying to do now and here, I guess.