I woke up this morning still dazed by night; the aftertaste of everything that happened the day before was still on my tongue. It all began as if it had not ended at all, and this happens now and then. Joy is sticky like the candies from summers before work and worry when everything was much simpler. I wanted to wrap myself into the sheet and not start the day, but then, we must all get out of bed eventually, and so I did. Half the day is gone now, the daylight is still going strong, and the coffee has finally started to do its job. It is a day when nothing will happen—I know it. It is a day with simple laughter shared between friends over meals, games, and whatever you do to pass the time on days like this, which you often do not have a word for. And when a day like this is over, they ask you what you did all day, and you laugh, and you tell them “nothing” as if it is not a valid answer. I sit here, writing as we all talk about our plans for what is left of the day and our lives.
The goodness of this life makes me feel a soft fondness for all that has happened and all that is yet to come. Maybe, if I were to live this life again, it would not be as bad as it seemed once. There will always be a day like this, with open backpacks and suitcases lying all over the floor and clothes spilling out of them like the truth that needs no hiding. I think I would be fine. Perhaps, it would all be okay. This is the middle, after all. A lot has happened already, and a lot awaits, and here we sit talking about nothing.