2024

Hi, again.
We’re here.

In my silence, in my absence from this space, I have become delirious over understanding the satisfaction of living. Of the cool delirium with which we exist. Of our beating hearts and the resilience in which they saunter on. I have become stilled, in awe, of the way life presents its moments with such a stark and disarming matter-of-factness. What is life, I have learned, but a series of uncontrollable circumstances? Sickness. Desire. Ache. Death. Love.

I have become enamored with the hold the past has, and how so much of the course of our lives are really only thinly veiled attempts to reimagine our beginnings. How many years do we forfeit by always wishing things were different? How many moments do we shoo away? How many lovers?

I feel as if I have met life. As if I finally see her for the circumstance she is. How she is neither a warden nor a pest, neither a dictator nor a sheep. She is neither cold nor calculating. She is.

She is circumstance. And whatever today’s circumstance is, that is what life becomes. She is no more or no less than an empty stage. A bare table. What is placed before her, what is laid upon her, is the present she in turn presents. Good, bad, unfair, or indifferent.

And in that way I love her as I would love my favorite piece of furniture. Or my favorite mug for coffee. Some days the brew inside is exceptional, other days questionable, and some days the remnants are so awful they are hastily poured down the drain. But the cup remains the cup. She neither gives nor takes away. And in this, I return time and time again because she welcomes me. Because she waits for me. Because she is. So I can do nothing to life, but love her. Nothing but accept her as freely as she has accepted whatever gold or poison is poured into her each day.

Such is life.

Happy New Year, 2024.
xx.