I couldn’t say when it happened. Every day of my life has led up to this feeling. There is a resignation in me now. It is lodged into my conscience. I often look around at the life I live, and I see possibility, but I desire nothing in particular anymore. If I had others to walk along with, I would make the most of all promenades and streets. We will stop to get candy or coffee as the sun, filtered through the leaves above us, frames the moment at hand; no afternoon, no evening will be put to waste. But if I have to walk alone, I had no qualms with it either. The promenades would be the same. The sun will feel the same. I may even stop to get coffee still.
If no one ever read these words, it would sit as well with me as it might if everyone did. If I spent my days surrounded by laughter, so be it, and if there was nothing but silence, I would put some music on, brew some coffee and start the day regardless. I would stand in the morning haze, sipping my coffee and listening to the sound of the birds, and if I could not tell anyone about the sheer joy of it all, I would write about it. Perhaps, what I want to say is that I will be utterly unbothered by how things turn out. My only concern now is how I do something; I do things as best as I can and then some more. The rest may unfold as it does. I do not want to worry about how my life turns out. I will be fine irrespective of how it does. I am not afraid of missing out on things anymore. I am not scared of time running out.
This fearless living of my days has made me happy lately, but if I did not feel that way, it would still sit right by me. We could not be or do all we wanted. I may not see everything—no one ever does—but the little I do is a privilege, and I am glad for it. There is always enough time to see enough; there is never enough time to see it all.