Time passes. One day much like the last. Mostly empty. Sometimes busy, filled with someone else’s important thing. I don’t mind that. Happy to help, to borrow someone’s important thing. Even that, though – not that important. Just their jobs. Remedying a little the unfairness of the master servant relationship.
I eat. Not enough green. I quit smoking, then backslide. I talk to my ex-girlfriend, and tell her I love her most days. Television is still here.
But still. Just the days. In and out.
I am deleveraging. Paying it down. Waiting to be happy for that day. Soon? Soon.
My youth, I realized was full of internal magic, full of epic signicance, and me, myself, my own strong protagonist. Now, I sit on the banks of my own life, my feet in the water, my fishing pole untaut and waiting.
The lightness of being, Kundera called it. The absence of great joy or great sorrow. Though, sometimes, in the shower, the feel of the water waking me up all over and in every moment, I feel the great vivid livingness of being, and sense the fact that time is still passing, and everything is quietly changing and endeavoring, mindless but unceasing, to take away everything I have and then everything I am.
The writing cannot capture the feeling, because the writing is later.