I woke up to the cat purring and lazing around on the carpet beside the sofa I was sleeping on. It took me a bit to realise that the purring had woken me up anyway. The clock was still at the fifth hour, and there was still time. She looked at me with eager eyes, and somehow, I knew exactly what was required. I tapped the blanket. Almost instantly, the cat leapt on top of it and whistled and purred as it rolled into a ball of a creature. Then, it slept, and so did I.
When I woke up, the cat was gone, and I would not see her until later in the day. Perhaps it is me, or maybe it happens to us all, but when a vacation comes to an end, I feel the urge to define it as if there is some underlying lesson in the days spent away from home. The world has convinced us that everything must be squeezed for meaning, so we look for it frantically. We leave no stone or seashell unturned. Every friendship, every place, every moment must have some meaning, but most things are inherently meaningless—that is a good thing!
Sometimes, you want nothing but to feel the sea steal the sand beneath your feet or want to get drunk and slur your speech, or maybe you prefer to have a quiet lie-down near the beach and stare at the sunset, or perhaps you want to dance to your heart’s content at the beach, or even take a walk till the sand runs out. This has no meaning, but how sad would life be if everything was explainable? I do not want to see a day where even my wants need some thesis to prove them. We sat at the shack last night and ran them out of their supply of beer for the day: A meaningless achievement and yet glorious enough that it will become a part of all the stories we ever tell.
Ironically, there is still a lesson in there somewhere—something to do with how only a few things matter—but I do not have the patience to think about it. I have yet another day to spend here. A lot can happen in twenty-four hours and matter so little, still. It does not mean we should not look forward to the day unfolding, but rather the opposite.