Bookmark #715

I sit in a cafe, and I read a morbid poem about life. I lose myself in the chatter and murmur. Then, I try to order another cup of coffee. I wish, sometimes, that I could tell you how my life changed, of all the things that happened, of the joys and the perils which are part-and-parcel of living. But then, there are no conversations beyond the end of the line. It is a shame how easily we lose people to time, to our own shortcomings, to the toss of fate—even if I could not, for the life of me, think it had any say in things that happen to us. It’s been more than a minute, of course, and to think about things that happened all this time ago might look like some lingering doubt, but it is not. You miss every day of your life, whether it was sunny or even if it rained. When you reach a certain point, it all becomes about time passed, things felt, the sheer abundance of all that there is to remember, and the lack of time and mind to do it. Just then, the cup of coffee arrives, and I am deflected out of this reverie.

For all those I have crossed paths with and all who I am yet to meet, I wish nothing but goodness, beauty and magic. It is not in my heart to hate another, even if I hold my anger for a minute or two; it is not in my mind to not find some plausible reasoning for whatever does happen. I can convince myself of everything except this: to despise others. It is not in me to hold a grudge, and even if someone stabbed me in the back, if I manage to live somehow, and then if I see them on the street, and if they need a hand, I will be the first to extend it; if not the first, I will extend it nonetheless. There is still hope in this world, in me, yet. I look around the cafe, and I see only this: potential. From whoever I have ever wronged, even if in error, I ask forgiveness, and to every person who ever harmed me, even if they did intend it, I say, “It’s alright, have a drink and tell me what have you seen since we last met?”

The world is alright, if we talked a little, and then if we all talked a little bit more. But people seldom talk as much as they should. When they do, they talk about all the wrong things, and then they wonder where things went wrong.