You walked into the lake because the sun was hot, although it was only April. The spring-time water was so cold it burned. Your pale winter legs were sorrowful things that looked like stems of early white asparagus, flesh that was yours yet disconnected from you, a reflection of feeling wavering in the broken surface of the lake on one of the first warm days that year. It was too early in the season for you to think about actually swimming but wading felt god, it felt like saying hello to the light at the end of the long dark tunnel of winter. The sun’s rays felt like a physical thing, no longer winter thin. Soft silty sand under uncalloused soles. It squished up in clouds between your toes, you walked into the cold water because you have moments where you know you will never be as young again, and you will never be brave. Cold water wading while your friends mock you from the shore may be as brave you are allowed to feel in this sorrowful life.
Then something hard caught the arch of your foot: you winced and withdraw from its loathesome polish. The silt settled and you looked down through the shimmering gray water. It was a skull. A small teacup skull. Stripped bare of flesh and skin. The essential bone remained, a hollow skull. The pointed teeth. It was so disconnected from what it once was. It was no longer alive, it was a shell for shadows. It waited in the silt to sicken and disappoint intruders from the surface world with the brittle frankness of flesh returning to dirt.
Wishful thinking has been a habit ever since I can remember myself as a person. Wishful about the day, about the future. Wish I was recognised for who I am
hoping for something to happen. when you are really starving for one thing you wanted for a lot of time or when you wish for good things to happen in the world.
She knew it was just wishful thinking. How could someone like him ever notice someone like her? Yet when she was alone, she couldn’t help daydreaming about the two of them walking on the beach at sunset, hand in hand.
I am finished with wishful thinking. I am moving on to action, baby. Get up and do it. Wishful seems to admit defeat, seems to define victimhood. Wishful implies that you’re not going to get there.
I want to say get that wish done, baby.
I never really thought about wishful. I don’t think I am wishful. I don’t really know what it means, except that it seems pointless. What the hell does anyone care what you’re wishful about? It means nothing to me. If you’re wishful for something, either you should try to get it or let it go. Don’t be wishful.
the eighth dwarf who got voted off/out of the cottage before Snow White showed up for never actually doing anything, just sitting around wishing for stuff to happen. I feel a bit like Wishful the dwarf sometimes.
Wishful for a time of peace of mind, where the world feels magical and all consuming in the best way. Wishful to feel alive. Wishful to want to be alive.
My ma used to say that we could be granted the things we want if they do, so maybe that’s where this childish fantasy of mine came from. I mean, I know it’s immature, for people decades younger than I am, but with a life like mine – broken, long, hopeless…
I’ve always been a wishful type of girl. Always wishing for a better life or something as such. But when do we ever get our wishes? The darkness always creeps up in the corners of your mind, and its even darker before the dawn.
He braces against the subway holds, jostling to and fro with every stop and start. The flowers are beginning to wilt; taking them from hot to cold to hot to cold doesn’t bode well for them. He’s got a small smile none the less. “They’re the perfect color” he thinks, thinking of getting just the answer he wants with this precise gift on this precise day.
If only. If only I had this. Or that. Or something in between. Or be on the grassier side of life. I wish I were wishful. If only I could wish upon a star and everything would be fixed.
No. I will work. I will wish, but I will fulfill my own wishful desires.
It was Christmas and all my thoughts could dwell on was the fact that I was alone on the most family oriented holiday of the year. It was wishful thinking to call it discouraging.
so let me take in a deep breath, and watch the stars while i walk back to my car. because i am a wonder-girl, trying to capture every miracle that i can.
like maybe the miracle that you still love me after all of this.
but i stare into the sky, and i see no shooting star. i half expected to, you know, because that’s how these things work.
We can’t have what we want,
But we can want what we have.
Dream and be wishful, and your life will pass you by
Dream and be grateful
and happiness is yours forever.
I couldn’t help but stare at Ashley with a look of dumbfounded pity. In what was definitely a display of naïveté and wishful thinking, she had allowed two, strange men to park her car.
“Ashley, how long has it been since they said they would park your car?”
She tilts her head and scrunches her brow, trying to equate drunk time with realtime. “Well, I had a shot with Becca, talked with John, and now I’m here talking with you. Oh and this,” she raises an orange concoction, “is my second drink, a ‘Sex on the Beach.’ Funny name right?”
It takes a lot of restraint to not slap my forehead in exasperation. “How long, Ash?” I ask.
“Um. I guess 15 minutes.”
“Oh shit,” I mutter under my breath. We would be lucky if we even caught a glimpse of her car speeding out of the lot into the night. Luckier still would be if our parents didn’t kill us for going to Cabo for Spring Break.
“You ever think we’ll get out of this alive?” asked Brach, as he passed me a bottle of something purple and strong.
I laughed. “Some soldiers might call that wishful thinking, comrade.” I drank from the bottle and tasted a mixture of plums and burning. And not like a delicious plum pudding lit on fire, either. No, just burning.
“I figured,” sighed Brach. He leaned against the wall now, snapping and unsnapping the clips on his utility belt.
I wish to be a writer one day. This is one form of expression which has no leaps and bounds. When i write fiction i can just fly and nobody has a say. If i choose to write poem then i can just dance with the words, really trust me i feel it, i dance when i write poem. But poem actually is something i have started writing recently and i can’t believe how the thoughts and words just flow. I never knew i could write poems… Seems so unreal… Yet feels like a wishful thought has come true.
She closed her eyes and held her breath and she waited. Any second now. Any second now. When she opened her eyes nothing had changed. She exhaled quickly.
You walked into the lake because the sun was hot, although it was only April. The spring-time water was so cold it burned. Your pale winter legs were sorrowful things that looked like stems of early white asparagus, flesh that was yours yet disconnected from you, a reflection of feeling wavering in the broken surface of the lake on one of the first warm days that year. It was too early in the season for you to think about actually swimming but wading felt god, it felt like saying hello to the light at the end of the long dark tunnel of winter. The sun’s rays felt like a physical thing, no longer winter thin. Soft silty sand under uncalloused soles. It squished up in clouds between your toes, you walked into the cold water because you have moments where you know you will never be as young again, and you will never be brave. Cold water wading while your friends mock you from the shore may be as brave you are allowed to feel in this sorrowful life.
Then something hard caught the arch of your foot: you winced and withdraw from its loathesome polish. The silt settled and you looked down through the shimmering gray water. It was a skull. A small teacup skull. Stripped bare of flesh and skin. The essential bone remained, a hollow skull. The pointed teeth. It was so disconnected from what it once was. It was no longer alive, it was a shell for shadows. It waited in the silt to sicken and disappoint intruders from the surface world with the brittle frankness of flesh returning to dirt.
Wishful thinking has been a habit ever since I can remember myself as a person. Wishful about the day, about the future. Wish I was recognised for who I am
hoping for something to happen. when you are really starving for one thing you wanted for a lot of time or when you wish for good things to happen in the world.
She knew it was just wishful thinking. How could someone like him ever notice someone like her? Yet when she was alone, she couldn’t help daydreaming about the two of them walking on the beach at sunset, hand in hand.
I am finished with wishful thinking. I am moving on to action, baby. Get up and do it. Wishful seems to admit defeat, seems to define victimhood. Wishful implies that you’re not going to get there.
I want to say get that wish done, baby.
I never really thought about wishful. I don’t think I am wishful. I don’t really know what it means, except that it seems pointless. What the hell does anyone care what you’re wishful about? It means nothing to me. If you’re wishful for something, either you should try to get it or let it go. Don’t be wishful.
the eighth dwarf who got voted off/out of the cottage before Snow White showed up for never actually doing anything, just sitting around wishing for stuff to happen. I feel a bit like Wishful the dwarf sometimes.
Wishful for a time of peace of mind, where the world feels magical and all consuming in the best way. Wishful to feel alive. Wishful to want to be alive.
I wish that the stars would fall from the sky.
My ma used to say that we could be granted the things we want if they do, so maybe that’s where this childish fantasy of mine came from. I mean, I know it’s immature, for people decades younger than I am, but with a life like mine – broken, long, hopeless…
It’s never too late to dream, isn’t it?
I’ve always been a wishful type of girl. Always wishing for a better life or something as such. But when do we ever get our wishes? The darkness always creeps up in the corners of your mind, and its even darker before the dawn.
A touch of the world we once knew before we were born. A hope of recapturing what once we enjoyed.
He braces against the subway holds, jostling to and fro with every stop and start. The flowers are beginning to wilt; taking them from hot to cold to hot to cold doesn’t bode well for them. He’s got a small smile none the less. “They’re the perfect color” he thinks, thinking of getting just the answer he wants with this precise gift on this precise day.
If only. If only I had this. Or that. Or something in between. Or be on the grassier side of life. I wish I were wishful. If only I could wish upon a star and everything would be fixed.
No. I will work. I will wish, but I will fulfill my own wishful desires.
I was wishful that the nights events would end pleasantly and not in disaster like last time. If they did I was sure it would not be the last time.
It was Christmas and all my thoughts could dwell on was the fact that I was alone on the most family oriented holiday of the year. It was wishful thinking to call it discouraging.
so let me take in a deep breath, and watch the stars while i walk back to my car. because i am a wonder-girl, trying to capture every miracle that i can.
like maybe the miracle that you still love me after all of this.
but i stare into the sky, and i see no shooting star. i half expected to, you know, because that’s how these things work.
a wishful heart through and through.
We can’t have what we want,
But we can want what we have.
Dream and be wishful, and your life will pass you by
Dream and be grateful
and happiness is yours forever.
I couldn’t help but stare at Ashley with a look of dumbfounded pity. In what was definitely a display of naïveté and wishful thinking, she had allowed two, strange men to park her car.
“Ashley, how long has it been since they said they would park your car?”
She tilts her head and scrunches her brow, trying to equate drunk time with realtime. “Well, I had a shot with Becca, talked with John, and now I’m here talking with you. Oh and this,” she raises an orange concoction, “is my second drink, a ‘Sex on the Beach.’ Funny name right?”
It takes a lot of restraint to not slap my forehead in exasperation. “How long, Ash?” I ask.
“Um. I guess 15 minutes.”
“Oh shit,” I mutter under my breath. We would be lucky if we even caught a glimpse of her car speeding out of the lot into the night. Luckier still would be if our parents didn’t kill us for going to Cabo for Spring Break.
“You ever think we’ll get out of this alive?” asked Brach, as he passed me a bottle of something purple and strong.
I laughed. “Some soldiers might call that wishful thinking, comrade.” I drank from the bottle and tasted a mixture of plums and burning. And not like a delicious plum pudding lit on fire, either. No, just burning.
“I figured,” sighed Brach. He leaned against the wall now, snapping and unsnapping the clips on his utility belt.
I wish to be a writer one day. This is one form of expression which has no leaps and bounds. When i write fiction i can just fly and nobody has a say. If i choose to write poem then i can just dance with the words, really trust me i feel it, i dance when i write poem. But poem actually is something i have started writing recently and i can’t believe how the thoughts and words just flow. I never knew i could write poems… Seems so unreal… Yet feels like a wishful thought has come true.
Having wishes is an extremely important thought because of which we look forward to the next day and work towards a goal.
So being wishful is nothing but looking forward to something with a hope to achieve and get happy about.
Be wishful because you never know when your wishes become the reason for your existence.
She closed her eyes and held her breath and she waited. Any second now. Any second now. When she opened her eyes nothing had changed. She exhaled quickly.