I stood outside the bar on a Friday a few Fridays ago and waited for a cab. I thought of going in, of cancelling the ride and blowing off some steam. It was still about five minutes for the car to arrive, which meant I had to use this time judiciously to decide what to do next. The music was enticing, and truth be told, I could have used the ambience; the hospital rooms are terribly depressing for people like me—those who think too much. But no, I told myself, there was so much else to do, and the day was ending already. I must get home. Of course, that was over a few weeks ago. Time blurs faster than we can keep a tally of the days. In the end, we don’t remember much, only a few specific moments and a general idea of how our lives were in certain seasons or certain months in certain years. We do not remember much; if I had not written about it, I would not remember this ordinary moment of contemplation. But now, I have written it down, and in many ways, I have a doorway to these weeks, too. All I have to do is read my words again, and I will be here: in a September which began with rain and is still caught in it, and somehow, still passing by. I can always return to this even if I do not see any reason for it now. We cannot predict what we may or may not want to do in the future.
But all this, what we go through, and this act of writing it down, makes me think. It makes me think of how proud we are, how conceited, to think things only happen to us and no one else, that we are so unique and special, and then we watch a film or read a book. Almost instantly, it drags us down from our pedestal and into the muddy ground. We are reduced to what we are: a human being with a beating heart, still living. All that we go through, all life is about humbling us into oblivion. The final plea goes like this: I shall not be proud from now on, I promise, I swear. In whispering this, over and over, most life is spent.