Bookmark #506

I sit at the airport, waiting for something to happen. I wait here, wanting to get home. At a loss for words, I take another sip of the coffee. It occurs to me how airport coffee tastes the same no matter where you are flying from. It is always burnt, and while there is a certain quality to it, it is far too lost in the charred aftertaste. This is testament to the human spirit. We always manage to ruin things the same way. On a makeshift desk—my suitcase—and a terrible cup of coffee, I sit writing about yet another irrelevant musing, and something still tells me this is important. It may not be important to anyone else, but to me, this is all that matters in the end. This is it, I tell myself; this is my moment; this is my element. This suspension of life, between all this busyness, this is where we sit, pretending to be artists. No one is an artist until it’s a little too late. No one is an artist before their time. Until then, it’s all pretend.

Bad as it may be, the coffee has breathed new life into these hands of mine. It makes me think how even the worse things are, perhaps, not so bad in the end. All things find a way to do what they are supposed to do. We cannot know much about the world and how it works, but we can know this: it all makes sense at some point. If there is anything I can think of life, it’s how abundant, how beautifully abundant it has become, and how effortless! Often, it does not occur to us how miserable we are until someone touches the mosaic where it’s cracked. This does not mean the misery isn’t there; it only means it is hidden well enough under the colours. Until someone pushes into the crack and marks the beginning of a catastrophe. Over time, you learn how this, too, was a favour.

I think of last autumn as I sit at the cusp of another. It is a remarkable thing when the pages of life ruffle into something new. And I only think of how there is nothing but more, more, and more. It is going to be an incredible life. It has been an incredible life. There is little else to say. There is always little to say when you’re happy, but you must say something. You must always say something.

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