Today is an ordinary day. It is an ordinary moment slightly past midnight, and I am writing these words with a sort of fatigue I can’t quite explain. Words come to me with difficulty now. Perhaps, it’s a sign; I’m happy or maybe, I’ve stopped.
The thing is, since there always is a thing, I don’t much care. About happiness, that is, or anything for that matter. It’s an odd sort of indifference I can’t quite explain. There are a lot of things lately which I can’t quite explain.
If this little confession means anything at all to anyone at all, I would want to make it worth your while so I’ll tell you about motion. You see, some of us are cursed. Cursed to never reach places; we could only keep running, endlessly.
You’d know you were one of us if you felt at home on exit doors, at train stations, on seats of buses, on flights, in cabs, and of course, while walking. You could often find us running late, and running, in general. It was this terrible urge to stay in motion, perpetually. Never to make ourselves too comfortable in a life; always ready to move, to run.
As long as there was movement, there was life. Once we arrived, no matter where, there was nothing but disappointment. Life was about anticipation, about waiting for things against all odds, about working through things without any resolution, even if there was one in our grasp.
It was about prolonging everything. How else does one indulge in the human experience if not by drowning in their sorrow for an extra couple of days, if not by staying in love years after someone had left, if not by always having a thought too many about nothing much of significance?
By no means, however, do I wish this upon you nor do I want you to relate.
I hope, desperately, that when you fall in love, you feel at home. I wish, truly, that you find what you enjoy and you do it for all your days with the same enthusiasm. I want, sincerely, for you to stay somewhere, to make space for where you are, and to indulge in the everyday. Lastly, I want happiness for you, but more than that: the ability to accept it.
There were enough of us on the run from ourselves, putting pointless phrases on a piece of paper, perpetually.