I know someone.
He lives for the minuscule things,
For the few minutes of sunrises,
Down to the seconds of sunsets,
For the moments the wind blows the dandelions,
For the tiny drops of rain to his shoulders,
All of those, he takes a shot.
“He’s weird,”
I thought.
I asked him,
“Why bother?”
I’ll never look at things the same way again.
"Love the little things.
Love the minutes the sky holds a different color.
Love the wind that lets you have a chance
to wish for a promising tomorrow.
Love the rain for it cries for or with you.
Because those things just give a simple notation,
You’re still alive.”
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
I know someone.
He lives for the minuscule things,
For the few minutes of sunrises,
Down to the seconds of sunsets,
For the moments the wind blows the dandelions,
For the tiny drops of rain to his shoulders,
All of those, he takes a shot.
“He’s weird,”
I thought.
I asked him,
“Why bother?”
I’ll never look at things the same way again.
"Love the little things.
Love the minutes the sky holds a different color.
Love the wind that lets you have a chance
to wish for a promising tomorrow.
Love the rain for it cries for or with you.
Because those things just give a simple notation,
You’re still alive.”
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