Bookmark #544

Sundays are for intentional delays as you do everything with complicit tardiness. While on other days, you often tell others how you were not responsible for being late, that there was traffic, or the imminent end of the world stopped you from arriving on time, on Sundays, you tell them you woke up later than you had intended. You own this folly with such confidence that they must nod and remark on how it is Sunday and we all deserve some rest. And if nature is benevolent, it begins to rain on Sunday, and you can traipse around without having the conversation at all. I came home after such a day, and it started raining while I was on my way back, which to some degree, thwarted my plans to stop for coffee. I could have stopped still, but I wanted to have it on the patio, and the image of a man having coffee by himself as it rains around him did not make the thought enticing. If anything, I could detect the paucity of the positive in the prose a moment like that would inspire. So, I came home.

Then, it stopped raining, and for a second, from underneath the cotton cover of clouds, I could see the blue sky again. But it is October, and all our days have gotten shorter. Before I saw the blue, I saw the night descend upon the city. Now, as I sip coffee by the window and write these words, I ponder how one decision can change even the words someone will write. Each moment we experience locks us out from living the rest. I think of all this, and I debate going out for a walk and coffee later in the evening and if the rain would not return.

There are half a dozen versions of me and half a dozen versions of the evening ahead of me. It can go any one way from between them. Ah, the infinite possibilities of life. It is funny how paralysing they feel. Yet, we continue choosing for and against things and eventually, life does happen. My life only exists because there are so many lives I decided to not live. These words exist because there were countess words I was never in the position to write.

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