Thursday n. the day of the week before Friday and following Wednesday
Well, obviously. But this Thursday in particular is my @*th birthday and I was actually born on a Thursday too, which means … ummm … well, not much really. There must have been loads of times in my interminable lifetime that my birthday has fallen on a Thursday.
Commonly believed to originate from Thor, who is one of the Avengers, ‘Thor’s Day’ is actually a more recent replacement for the older (Old English) Thu(n)resdæg or ‘day of thunder’.
The etymology of this, in turn, is a translation of late Latin Jovis dies or ‘day of Jupiter’ (the God associated with thunder).
A noticeably charmed day, simply by being the penultimate in a normal working week of Monday - Friday and bringing with it a whiff of the weekend.
“If I could only touch you and create a ripple in all you know,” said the book.
This particular book has created tidal waves right down to my very core, right down to my atomic level.
It has been a particularly beautiful, sometimes painful, occasionally heartbreaking, and a distinctly life- and attitude-changing read that has made me reassess my past and probe the dusty chambers of my heart. The book has the prime location in my bookcases. I will turn to it again and again in years to come. But for now, the last pages flicker in an autumnal breeze as the final chapter dwindles to its last words.
I … love … you.
Only by rising and reaching out can you find your center. Learn to hear your heart over your head as your mind will often keep you in the confines of what you have always known. To lead with your heart requires that one is willing to follow its guidance fearlessly. If man could be as unconditional in his heart- expanding without restrictions or boundaries much like the universe, it is astounding to think of how much more complete one would become.
You believe in ghosts. Of course you do. The ones whose name is spoken in a chance sentence when you least expect it. The ones that you hear in the notes of your favourite songs and in the drops that bounce off the windowpane. You still feel them. I know you do. Haunting your chest and casting shadows at the back of your throat when you tell someone that they don’t exist, yet all you can ever really do is habit their pictures often to make sure they’re still there.
We are all haunted.
To be a successful writer, I believe one must have the ability to engineer a thought to a limb; to not only describe the summertime, but afford the reader a subtle breeze, a chance drizzle or even if just the sand between their toes at a crowded beach. I’ve only recently discovered that by tousling words around with similes and metaphors, you form expressions and with expressions, you can arrange a bouquet of flowers for a woman who never gets them, release a hummingbird from its ribcage and impel a Malaysian snow. To be a writer, I believe you need more than just a muse, rather the ambition to touch them with simple words.
For a while now, I’ve been wanting to write you a letter, just a simple letter to remind you that I have not forgotten, that I still think of you, but I live in a box of pencils that break when I try too hard. Here I am trying to make a sheet of paper beat to the tempo of my heart.