Bookmark #503

There is a lot to say about life, but there is little to talk about when someone asks you how it’s going. If it’s going good, you don’t want to jinx it and say it out loud, and if it’s going bad, why talk about it after all? And then, there is a space between the two. There i s the quiet you can talk about, as ironic as it seems. There is a lot you can say about it. When someone asks you about life, you can tell them about lush green grass, you can talk about blue skies, and if life allows, you can talk about the hearty meal and the conversation before it, and if you’re not as drunk as people like me tend to get, you can talk about the conversation after it. But almost always, when someone asks you how you got here, you would not have an answer. Happiness has no route. But to arrive, you must continue walking. That’s the oldest trick in the book.

And of walking? It was past midnight, and the trams had stopped moving about Krakow—at least the trams that could have taken us home. So we wandered over the cobblestone streets under the rainy sky of August. Perhaps, there was hope for us yet. We decided to cut across the Rynek Glowny, but our hotel was still far away. Our mission was simple, if there ever was one, but I could not put it in words better than the ones my newfound friends had used: we only have to walk five to six blocks. Of course, that was not the case. But life is not about truth, as it appears; it is about hope. Hope is about walking five or six blocks and continuing to do that until you reach wherever you are trying to go. That is all it is about: walking five to six blocks until you’re surrounded by laughter and beer and people who are ready to teach you all about their language. I believe if there is any happiness, if there is any middle, it is in this: people you can drink with and when everyone’s drunk enough, they can probably teach you a few words.

Perhaps, it does not get any better than this, and if it does, I would not know it. I would not know it at all.