I secretly hope no one will ever read that, which probably is what'd be,... But then why am I writing it? Because i believe that in order to get over an emotion, and not let it suffocate you, it's better to express it somehow. And the best somehow for me is writing. So, i was just out with my brother & mum, riding bikes /in the village, so you, the imaginary reader, will be aware of the close-knit relationships that exist here, otherwise that might have not happened/ and just on the way home I saw an old woman /i hope that's politically correct for the correctness nazis./ She smiled. I can't depict her smile, because I can't depict an emotion. I can just say that, when I got home, I felt an impulse to go back to her; and so I did. I went to her, sat on the bench, and she talked about her children, her grandchildren and how she used to be a singer. Yes, imaginary reader, I can see your face expression, that says "yes, and that's quite boring, old people talks, blah. They never stop." Now imagine yourself alone in a house. The house is big. You're alone. Your children are in /the best case/ the near town, working, coming to see you once or twice a week. You can't walk properly, you walk on crutches. So, most of the time, you are at home. Alone. And yet you smiled and your smile beamed. And what would mean the world to you may take just twenty minutes - twenty minutes to listen to the stories of your life. Those twenty minutes of listening.
And the emotion? Overwhelming happiness; happiness full of sad nuances.
