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 As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
Cole had been running his whole life. From a childhood town too small for his dreams, to a succession of jobs too big for his heart. Meetings, deadlines, suits—his whole world spun at a speed he couldn't step off. Every morning started with the hum of fluorescent light and every night ended with a tired sigh into the dark. Now, late in his thirties, he found himself on a rusted train chugging through nowhere, someplace between his latest contract and a city he couldn’t remember applying to. The train was old—its rhythm uneven, like an out-of-practice drummer, and the seats were torn in places. But it was quiet. Cole sat by the window, watching the countryside blur into shapes and colors he couldn't name. The fields rolled like an ocean, hills drifting lazily beneath the heavy dusk. No signal; no pressing emails; no urgent messages. Just the hiss of the slowing engine and the squeal of steel on steel. Then, a jolt. The train groaned, wheezed... and stopped. Passengers muttered, groaned, complained. A conductor passed through the car, muttering something about delay, an engine issue, a team on the way. Cole, for once, felt no urge to check the time or ask for an estimate. Instead, he grabbed his worn backpack, stepped down the clanging metal steps, and onto the dirt beside the tracks. A narrow path curved into the trees nearby. Without thinking, as though led by some quiet instinct, he followed it. The path led through an open grove of maples that shimmered with gold sunlight. Further in, he found a creaky wooden bench, sun-bleached and just rough enough to feel real under his fingers. He leaned back, taking a long breath—the kind that fills your ribs and empties your mind. For the first time in years, Cole wasn't late for anything. He realized: he didn’t want the train to be fixed, not yet. Little things started unfurling around him—things he'd forgotten how to notice. The song of a bird that seemed to echo right at the edge of memory. A child’s laughter in the distance, probably from a farm up the road. The breeze carried the scent of pines and cool earth, and underneath, a silence that wasn’t empty—but full of something... waiting. He had spent so much of his life looking forward, charting the next station, the next raise, the next version of himself. But here, with nowhere to be and a broken train behind him, he saw not ambition, not failure, but—space. And space, he realized, was something life rarely offered him anymore. Just after nightfall, the train let out a sputtering cough and stirred to life. Lights blinked back on. Passengers filed back with relief. Cole hesitated at the ragged edge of the forest, backpack slung over one shoulder. Then, with a smile too quiet to be noticed, he turned and walked the other way. Not toward the city. Not toward the next job. But toward anywhere else—with no need for rails, for maps, or even time. Just the freedom to walk. |
| Katharine Hepburn, in her own words: "Once, when I was a teenager, my father and I were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus. Finally, there was only one family between us and the ticket counter. That family made a lasting impression on me. There were eight children, all under the age of 12. From the way they were dressed, you could tell they didn’t have much money, but their clothes were clean, very clean. The children were well-behaved, standing in pairs behind their parents, holding hands. They were so excited about the clowns, the animals, and all the acts they would see that night. From their excitement, you could tell they had never been to a circus before. It was going to be a highlight of their lives. The father and mother stood proudly at the front of their little group. The mother was holding her husband’s hand, looking at him as if to say, 'You’re my knight in shining armor.' He was smiling, enjoying seeing his family happy. The ticket lady asked how many tickets he wanted, and he proudly responded, 'I want eight children’s tickets and two adult tickets.' Then she announced the price. The wife let go of her husband’s hand, her head dropped, and the man’s lip began to quiver. He leaned in closer and asked, 'How much did you say?' The ticket lady repeated the price. He didn’t have enough money. How was he supposed to turn around and tell his eight kids that he couldn’t afford to take them to the circus? Seeing what was happening, my dad reached into his pocket, pulled out a $20 bill, and dropped it on the ground. We weren’t rich by any means. My father bent down, picked up the $20 bill, tapped the man on the shoulder, and said, 'Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket.' The man understood what was happening. He wasn’t being handed charity, but he gratefully accepted the help in his desperate, heartbreaking, and embarrassing situation. He looked straight into my father’s eyes, took my dad’s hand in both of his, squeezed the bill tightly, and with trembling lips and a tear streaming down his cheek, he replied, 'Thank you, sir. This really means so much to me and my family.' My father and I went back to our car and drove home. The $20 my dad gave away was what we had planned to use for our own tickets. Although we didn’t see the circus that night, we felt a joy inside us that was far greater than seeing the circus. That day, I learned the true value of giving. The Giver is greater than the Receiver. If you want to be great, greater than life itself, learn to give. Love has nothing to do with what you expect to get, only with what you expect to give—everything. The importance of giving and blessing others cannot be overstated because there is always joy in giving. Learn to make someone happy through acts of giving." ~Katharine Hepburn |
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