Bookmark #866

I sit here writing at about twenty minutes after midnight. The day is still going on like an affair on its last legs, and I am thinking about all the times I could have written today—in the morning, under the afternoon sun, in the cafe at six, but I did not do it. The reasons for it are a mystery intriguing enough for someone to look into but unimportant enough to become a cold case eventually. In any case, here I sit, writing. Nothing else matters. One might argue that by the time I say something significant, which is often only a sentence wrapped up into the padding of mundane context, like the proverbial needle in the haystack, the piece is usually over, that I take ages to even reach what I am writing about. But all of that is hypothetical, of course, for to argue about these vignettes, one would have to read them first and read all of them, and if that is a humongous ordeal, then read enough of them to know how they exist like a pack of cards. You may not always have use for all of them, and if you are the gambling kind, you definitely will look to the few, but the fact that you need all of them to complete a suit remains unchanged regardless of the utility of any card or the rules of the game. These pieces work like that, too, or at least, I hope they do. I would not know, not for sure.

Today, I find a sudden, almost refreshing urge to be honest. Not that honesty had ever escaped me, but today, it is present in how water is present in a glass that is overflowing already, in how someone turns the tap on and forgets the glass there and then, and the glass is then filled anew with water, and when it is fully filled with it, it is filled yet again, and on and on it gets filled with it until someone notices it. That is how I feel tonight, but I do not have a reason for this, and this is what bothers me. More often than not, if you tell people how you feel, they ask you why, and they do this immediately, and they do it instinctively, and they do this liberally, without paying any heed to kind of feeling. Eventually, we begin to ask ourselves this before anyone can.

Why am I happy? We ask ourselves as if it is something strange and unknown. It makes me laugh.

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