Bookmark #493

Someday, when you’re fifteen, twenty-five or fifty, you will sit by yourself or stand with your hands on the balcony sill, and you will have a cup of coffee around somewhere or in your hands. You will look ahead, and something will tell you this is it. This is where it all converges—this moment is the beginning and the end of your time—everything you have ever said has led here, and everything you will ever say will come from here. This is my life, you will say, this is my life in ninety seconds’ worth of time. You will, for the first time, call it your own and mean it. In this moment, you will see it all. All past lovers will seem like an essential step in an obscure recipe; all lost friendships will suddenly feel like they were important, too; and all future will look the same as the past—with people, with things happening all around, and somehow, this time, you will feel ready.

Just then, you will remember some memory buried deep under your conscience, or simply, like all good days, you will have forgotten it. We often forget the good. It is terrible, but that is how it is: the good parts are good, and the bad parts feel worse. As the wind blows or some music plays on the speaker, both of which are essentially the same for a good song is like a gust that blows you away, and all soft breeze has a whistle to it, you will remember a lovely day full of sun from back when you were way too young, when being this old felt like a distant dream. The laughter will slowly echo back. It will start with a trickle, and you will scoff first. Then, you will chuckle and begin laughing. Most happiness begins as a scoff, not because it is not real, but because you cannot believe it. Most happiness feels unbelievable. I often wonder why that is the case, given all of us search for it.

I don’t know why we cannot believe it when we’re happy, but I do know all of us find it, whether it’s at fifteen, twenty-five or fifty. There is always a moment that engulfs you. Ninety seconds’ worth of your life; nothing remains the same afterwards.

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