I only dream of the present. Over and over, I find myself asleep with my eyes wide open, dreaming of nothing but the days I waste so nonchalantly. My days begin at this desk; my dreams end on it—one ends where the other begins. As if I were lost at a crossroads, tracing my steps repeatedly, forgetting where I came from and where to go, I lose track of this too. Now, the present is all I see in its exhausting beauty, its painful helplessness, the phalanx of days that all look the same, feel the same, begin the same and end the same. There is so much here, and I love it with all my heart.
I do not know where this absurd longing, this complicated love for the mundane began, but when I meet someone disappointed with life because it is unchanging, I often ask what else they were expecting. And then, I hear what most people would upon asking a question like this: excitement. But then, how long does excitement stay exciting, I wonder, before it, too, starts to feel like a chore, before one has to tape their smile to their cheeks?
In my experience, nothing poisons the well of society worse than those who feign joy and excitement. But it is not their fault; they are prisoners in labyrinths they built. If only they stopped to dive headfirst into tedium, if only they accepted that most ambition goes nowhere, and most hope is just something we cling to so we manage to end our days, which all still look the same. And no, this does not mean we should let go of ambition or hope, but it is why we could hold onto them tighter than we ever imagined: when we know them for what they are and not what we want them to be.
For now, this is all I know: I have fully surrendered to whatever happens in this life on a given day. The exciting bits come and go, but I always end up here, at this desk, with some work, some idea I wish to see through, or these words. But it all does end, and that is why I remain watchful and aware, curiously waiting for the scenery to change, for when it does, I will know it is fleeting, that before I blink, I will be back home, going through the motions. My tedium opens the doors for me. Every journey is a trip back home—wherever that may be for someone.