Of all the places in my house to write,
this morning I am huddled on the floor beside the space heater. The
beds and couches are occupied by children and guests. The chairs in
the open spaces are cold. The little heater roars and glows. The wood
floor glistens golden as it reflects the bathroom's light, and the
beginning of sunrise catches my eye through the window on the other
side of a cracked doorway. I am awake with the mystery again.
I am thinking, as usual, about work and
money. I am also thinking of life's beauty—which I'm finding right
now within all of its uncertainties and the moments between my
breaths. My head hurts a little. My throat is scratchy. When I peeked
out the bedroom door a few moments ago, my son lifted his head up and
smiled. I read magazine articles earlier about first world problems
like getting price tags off vases and making flower arrangements. My
father met Courtney on Halloween and told her how part of him
privately hopes for the collapse of organized society. I like
organized society and seek only changes in its structure, not its
obliteration. At the same time, I am increasingly more aware of just
how bizarre it is that humanity exists at all.
My most recent thoughts about the
universe envision it as being like a seed very slowly reaching its
maturation into a single flower. The experiences of mankind serve as
a filter giving it just exactly the right balance of energy it needs
to grow. It will blossom once and then be gone forever. Perhaps, there is
nothing more to all our lives than this.
Photo taken in Cabbage Town, Atlanta, GA |
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