Just now, as I was lying in bed on my last day off from work before returning, finishing a book that I brought with me everywhere on my trip but did not read, a simple thing occurred to me. There is so little that we can do, almost nothing. We make our choices, we can wish, we can surround ourselves, we can push back at the love that is offered to us, or we can be bowled over by it. Then it is all over, whether in pain, surprise, or some deluded sense that something else will emerge from the newly found darkness. It all passes so quickly, there is not much point in worrying about it not doing so.
I look around and I see so many others.
Though I know that I am loved I have often felt lonely. Many others must also feel this way. In this, I know that I am not so unique.
I look around and I see so many others, also.
I look around and I see so many others, also.
While I was gone, I missed writing. I missed beginning my mornings with some silly contemplation, given away freely. I missed the feeling that somehow, in some small way, I might also be something else, something other than lonely.
It all passes so quickly, there is not much point in worrying about it not doing so.
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