Bookmark #782

Nothing ever goes per plan. Every birthday reminds me of this, and today, as I sit here beginning anew once more, it occurs to me that it is all about the strides made and the miles travelled. Whether we become the best versions of ourselves or the worst ones is not entirely up to us, but we must make some attempt to get there. I sit here with this apartment’s resident cat beside me and catch up on some television shows I watch regularly. The cat does not say much, but it lets out a mew or two to let me know she’s there. The sun sets outside the window’s grills, and the palm trees’ shadows are cast all over, almost till the sofa-bed on the far end of this hall where I sit, stroking the cat’s head with my headphones in. Today is a day of rest—which I was chided for by everyone who called me on the phone to wish me happy birthday. I responded to every inquiry about the plans for the day with chuckles and laughs. I will sit here and watch TV. I think I have partied enough for this week. And as I said this, it occurred to me that I had fallen into my pattern once again—of wanting to go home before the trip ended.

In any case, I think about this twenty-sixth year I have spent in this world, and I have so much to be happy about; it would be unfair if I counted the few times the plans fell flat. But despite how things fare or how the times come and go, I have made strides. Whether they have worked or not, I am not at liberty to say—not yet. But the attempts were made, and sometimes, plans did come to pass. Perhaps that is the only thing we can be sure about.

We are free to make our choices, and we then live with whatever they lead to. There is little else I want to think of today. That, and maybe just this: I do not feel any particular pull of emergency in this life. I have done some things, and plenty remains undone. There is still time—nothing but time.

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