Dreams and Things

Dear Diary,

I don't like it when people tell me things are going to be OK. Things aren't OK. Just because they think so doesn't mean it'll actually happen. It's only wishful thinking. 

People shouldn't give you dreams so that you can see them disintegrate as time goes by. It's not giving hope to push forward. It's torture. It's inhuman. It's sadist. 

And people can tell you that you're allowed to wish for anything you want, or go anywhere you want, and then when you get super excited for something, tell you your dreams are all wrong and that you need to go back to the drawing board of your life. 
It's not fair.

'Cause life is always fair right?

Thought so.

The Bus Chronicles: Ron Weasley

I met Ron Weasley on the bus Friday. He had graying hair. What am I saying...his hair was as white as printing paper. I was astounded: where had his signature ginger mane gone? Anyhow, he seemed entranced by his computer tablet protected by a deteriorating red velvet cover. He wore average brown men shoes, beige corduroy pants and a pale, slime green winter coat. He had a comical expression on his face, a face Steve Carell or Steve Martin would wear. (Maybe he should change his name to Steve?) He was however, not in a laughing mood; actually, his demeanor was quite serious. Whatever was going on the tablet's screen was of capital importance, since his eyes were glued and he ignored the coming and going of strangers on the bus, and the slow humming of a dying engine. His virtual world was so magical, I'm surprised he didn't miss his stop. Maybe he did. As I left one of my favorite fictive friends from childhood on the 36A, I wondered if, as I had grown too mature and haughty for such ridiculous stories as Harry Potter, if Ron Weasley, the best friend and awkward side-kick, had ever grown up to reach his full potential and rid himself of the shadow of his much more important (Harry did slay Voldemort -- "He-WHO-SHALL- NOT-BE-NAMED!! *gasp*)   best friend. Or maybe, the electric pulses his brain was analyzing faster than he could realize was his only escape from a world where he'd always be the Beta, the Second in command, the first of the losers. Mister #2.

Hands

I've always wondered what it would be like to be loved by rugged hands. Hands that had worked under sunshine and rain showers, with love for the job during the good times and doubling energy and care during the bad. They would belong to someone as confident as they were on the field. They would know of hard times yet still understand the mechanics of tenderness. 
Hands with short nails, thicker skin and who often get dirty.
Hands with hardened palms, but whose fingertips still know the ecstasy of touch.