The remnants of winter are few and meagre. The sun shines loudly outside, shocking every part of the city with its light. That, too, is kind of a problem, isn’t it? When the good spreads so far and wide, you can no longer keep it in little boxes. In my life, there is an uncontainable joy. I have run out of boxes, and it has started slipping out of my fingers; what do I do? How do I keep it? It flows around me, and something tells me it will spill away. To be happy is one thing; to keep it is another.
I sit here without much to do for a change, and now on vacation from work, I come face to face with how it all began. With days where I had nothing to do and nothing to lose, and so, I sat to write. But things change, as is their nature. I now have things to lose and things to do, and this practice has suffered for all of it. But it would not be life if I did not have problems to solve—a lesson hammered into my conscience since I was a little boy.
Everything is a problem to solve. All things are puzzles. You just need to know which thread to pull, which piece to move, and the rules everything must obey. Everything is a pattern; even the spontaneity of life ebbs and flows; like a wave of sound, it has its crests and troughs. The sun comes up and moves down, day after day. Why care to solve it then, if it all has to work on its own eventually? An astute question, but then, why do anything at all? Our existence is an over-complication we accept. I have little say in it, but I have some say in how my days go and agency in how I do certain things.
The grand repetition awaits me. The joy I have will leave. The words that go quiet now and then will come back again. Like a dance, they will move in circles around each other. I will continue trying to fix things, they will keep changing, and I will have something to show for all my time.
After all, winter is over, and the rains have stopped. We think we have lived another season as if we had a say in any of it.
We continue the celebrations of spring.
Life goes on.