There is a growing reticence in me, which is proving it difficult to write as much as I want to or as much as I did when I was not as protective of the little things I often think about. I think it eventually comes to a point where you begin to see that people usually only make comments or ask questions that add little to your days, only that since they have to say something, they say the most foolish things, such as pointing out how you change your mind often, that it is in your nature to shift gears now and then, and of course, it is; of course, it is in my nature. What kind of person would believe in the same things forever? But then, it is not worth addressing this glaring gap in their logic. A grown-up can but look and smile calmly at a babbling baby—nothing more to do there.
Life is not one narrative but an anthology. People think they’re living in a novel, but they are wrong. They are just living in an increasingly interconnected web of tales, some of which are about them if they are lucky. Many lives have been lived entirely for someone else. In any case, I think something about the air in my life lately has made me feel as if the parts hitherto permanent have now started to fade into the realm of the temporary once again. My feet have begun to fidget, and I feel as if I have overstayed my welcome in this part of my life, that there are no more stories to tell, the coffee has gotten cold, and the weather seems to have an urgency to it, that if I do not leave immediately, I would be stuck here to the dismay of everyone, myself included. There are things to do, after all. I cannot afford to get stuck in my ways, in this life. There is a lot to do still.
Seasons change, of course. It is raining now. It has been for a while. But it will stop in a month or two. What then? Will we blame the city, blame the sky for changing its mind? Of course not. We will revel in what comes next. Things are always changing; people, too, should follow suit.