If I have sat here and begun writing, I have done this with the confidence of a fool. There is nothing to say today, and I will now attempt to make meaning out of nothing, pretend I know anything about anything. What can you say when it is but a day out of many in a life so vividly interesting that it always keeps you on your toes? In this wintry dry air in a rainless January, I find myself handing my heart to every person who walks my way. Absurd for many, this freeness in being able to let people in has returned to me like a friend whose name you forget not because you want to but for it has been too many years since you last saw them. But like all good things, good friends and good memories, this, too, has returned to me. And now, I find in myself not just the freedom to live but one to love.
What else could matter? To be honest, nothing. There is so much of everything, so much abundance, so much meaning, so much warmth, and so much love here. I cannot contain this contentment. It leaks into the smile on my face. All this hope, all this potential, I do not know what to do but squander it. And I am not afraid, no, but you cannot capture all the rain in the world, no matter how many buckets you have handy. This is but a foregone conclusion. There will be so much hope; I am bound to waste some of it. There will be so much opportunity; I will never be able to use it all. That is how it will all transpire. I know this because despite my believing the opposite, this is how it all has happened.
Nothing else to think about except this, that there will be good in this life, more than that has been so far, more than I could ever imagine or count, my ability for painstaking inventory notwithstanding. And what is more? I feel I can smile again. That in itself has stirred every string of my heart and shook it to its core, shedding all the dust it had gathered in all these years. There is nothing else to say today so a simple sentence would do: I am happy, I am happy, and you who reads these words, I hope you are too.