The gist of my life, like most lives, I reckon, is that things have happened, for better or for worse, for my power or for my haplessness, for wishes and whims of all in the world that is greater, inexplicably larger than me. And while I have happened to things myself, and I believe most people are this way, too, a lot of my life has just been a mild adjustment. Is it this way for everyone? I wonder. There have been times, I remember them clearly, when I thought it was all over because things did not go per the minutiae I had in mind for them, and then, this too I remember clearly, things kept happening. Nothing ever ended, and it always went on and on.
Perhaps, there is learning in this. Perhaps, there is folly in even believing there was another way, an alternative, that we could move mountains that did not want to be moved in the first place. Perhaps, all of my life has been but a fable in the making. But as I sit here, in a warm room on a cold, wintry night, more whisky in my veins than I would agree with, more love in the house and in my life than I ever imagined, more of more, and more of all that I cannot begin to count, I can say that things have happened, that I caused some of them, but not all, not most; a lot of it happened, and I woke up the next day, going about business as usual.