Bookmark #834

Often, when I walk through strange towns and cities that I will never consider moving to, I imagine if there was ever a scenario where I would willingly move to them and perhaps start afresh. Perhaps, a life where writing was at the centre stage, a small place to live in, a casual day job, if my savings do not last me, a person who, too, has left much of their life behind to share the bohemian fantasy with, if they will have me. I would maybe make coffee during the day for strangers and steal their stories between sessions of small talk. Then, come home and write it all with my tired and possibly scalded hands. But to do a mechanical job where most of my wits will be about me by the time I return home would be critical in this rebellious second half. We would survive on passion, for work, for art, for life, and if all the bills were paid on time, we would not need any more or any less than anyone in the world needs to survive. It would be a dream in a sense, but, of course, I would never be able to leave my life behind.

There is a web between everyone we know and us; there is a tapestry in this life, and a life is rarely about one person. I wonder if things would be any different, and when I say things, I simply mean happiness.

There is a thought I have felt one too many times in cities I have walked through enough to remember them like the back of my hand. I often chuckle and sigh and try to walk it off. I reckon I would carry everything that is a part of me in a suitcase, deliberations and all. I guess it is how it is for all of us. But this time, I did not have to look so deep into the abyss to find a reason to stick to the regularly scheduled programming of my life. I looked at my nephew, and he babbled something incredibly important to me. I reckon he had the answer, and I seemed to agree with him. There was little to think about from that point on. Why should we move to greener pastures if the ones we graze on are green enough?