Bookmark #898

Woke up unfathomably late, and on any other day, I would be ashamed of myself if I woke up at an hour when the world and the day have both passed me by, but today is an exception. It is an exception for I needed the rest, and that it had been an ordeal to be awake with two hours of shut-eye. Of course, when activity thrives in life, all kinds land on your plate, and sometimes, things happen to you in the middle of the night you would not expect to, and if you come out unscathed, albeit shaken and fazed, and a little light on the pockets, it is an acceptable outcome.

The specifics do not matter; they rarely matter. The blurrier the memory, the easier it is to gloss it over like an old canvas where the paint has melded together, where the painting that once was matters little, and the only correct course of action is to paint over it and paint anew. But, of course, for the while we can see the painting, we can be open to make a few jokes, to laugh at the terrible image that now lies in front of us. A little humour goes a long way, and we must, in one way or another, laugh at the ridiculousness of it—of the ambiguity of strokes on the canvas, of the days and nights you cannot fully recall, of the parts of life that are not as pretty enough to try and remember. I reckon that is how I have looked at things; it has worked thus far and has worked quite well.

And what will I do now that I am awake and I have written? I will maybe call a friend and talk about all things under the sun. Perhaps, get some work done. Maybe fold some laundry and continue the endless continuity of normalcy. To remind ourselves that for all the albeit, somewhat unordinary things that happen to us, most of life flows smoothly from one day to the next. The world changes, the floor moves beneath your feet, your faith in people shivers a bit, and then, you sit in an afternoon and fold laundry, and then, you stand at the kitchen sink doing the dishes.

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