This is all new to me, love. This entire taking-life-slowly thing. I’ve lived to seize every day; you know that better than anyone. Reading but not wanting to finish a book, sipping coffee but not having anywhere to go after, or lettings hours go by—all of this is new to me.
As someone who writes words—I want to say for a living, but you and I both know how outlandish that is so—to entertain, to amuse, and sometimes, to leave others with a thought, I’m obsessed with stories.
To me, a cup of coffee is more than some beverage. It is a story—a story of a young man hailing a cab with less than fifteen minutes to a critical meeting; a story of a young woman sitting in her yard, looking at the birds that have come to visit her; the story of us and a table in a cafe in a city that no one will ever remember.
The issue with stories, of course, is that we’ve been told they end with favourable conclusions. Lovers meet more often than they don’t, the underdogs win more often than they don’t, and on and on.
For far too long, I’ve believed the story of us—the story of me and the story of you. I’ve always thought if I had just enough strength, if I held on a little longer, if I kept going another day, then, maybe, this would be the only story to tell.
Now, as I sit here, watching clouds pass by, not trying to seize anything at all, I don’t have much to show for all that effort but a little exhaustion, this book I’m reading rather slowly, and this cup of coffee I’m sipping by myself.
It’s all new to me, love. I don’t know much about life without the story of us. I don’t know life without waiting on a call, or without the fatigue of holding on too tightly for too long.
There is one tiny thing, though. It’s the occasional, effortless smile. It makes me wonder if perhaps, the story did end, and if this was the favourable ending.
I can’t say for sure, though. This letting-go thing is still very new to me; I’ve held onto things my whole life. You know it better than anyone else.