Building these magnificent golden days has brought more callouses on my soul than I can count, but all good things start tragically. There is a remembrance in my days as I remember lying on the grey, shaggy rug, out of body, out of mind, not sure if I would live to see another year, and that if I did, it would still not be what I wanted, and I would not be who I thought myself to be. How did I get here? I wish I knew. Anyone who tells you there is a plan or process to this is lying. You grasp at straws and pull yourself up. It was but a test, which I tell people now, but it was not some mythological trial. If I were to do it again, I would not know if I could bring the same outcome. It was real, and it was messy, and it was vulgar to the point of utter disgust.
Everything looks good in prose—good and beautiful—but all artists are merely stranded survivors who lived to tell the tale. But, they talk about anything but their storms. The storms are over, they say; let us rejoice and have a drink. There will be days when we talk about the ruin of being ripped apart in all directions, but not today. Today, the sun is warm and glorious. Anyone who has spent time rowing themselves out of a tempest knows not to talk about it. The ones who know will know regardless of your telling them, and the ones who don’t will never understand it with mere words.
So, come, it is still October, we say. Let us bask in the warmth and raise our glasses for a toast: may we get a thousand days like this, and when they are over, may we get a thousand more. May we never have to learn to swim as the rapids do their best to drown us. May we have nothing to write about except banal, repetitive happiness in cups of coffee, in trees and in streets, in people, and in all things that make this life worth living. May we all be vapid and commonplace and ordinary forever, and if that seems to be a long time, may we be just that for as long as life allows.