Good Morning

The air outside was crisp. It's silly, but it was certainly refreshing, that is to say compared to the cave I make of my bedroom when I sleep. I went outside to smoke and to pet the puppy. There's a pomegranate tree that grows in my front yard and in the season it has become deteriorated. By birds eating it, rushing wind smacking it, a surprise cold smothering it and...well, neglect. It's still a pretty sight. The way it was, it was just nice. The weather must have been particularly like another time, tied to a sensory reflex triggering memory, otherwise I don't think I would have loved it as much as I did.

A woman was out for a walk and said "Hello." She was simple and I hardly looked at her, but I was glad she smiled and acknowledged my presence. I smiled back and said good morning and laughed at myself...I wonder if she wonders that in that moment, she struck me enough to come write in her regard. I just thought, there's so much to do. There's so much, but despite that overwhelming sense so many of us carry with ourselves there's...so...much...time. I mean, she's out for a nice afternoon walk. Where am I? I'm young. I'm here. I'm writing instead of studying. It doesn't matter. I have time.

I read a book once that struck me to my very core and shaped the very sense of me. I envied the life he took on and the way the importance of nothing played such a grand role. Instead, the importance of what was around him took on that grandeur meaning of what life in itself ought to be. I loved that he did it without care, despite the accusations and assumptions. I strive for that. I strive for that careless pursuit of just being. That in itself seems sufficient, but everything I think is not, is it not? Isn't that what history has taught us? Exactly what I want and where I go, is exactly what is not intended for me.

I read a book once that made me feel important. It took every idea I had and reaffirmed the fact that they are mine and therefore so utterly true. It told me how important I am. I envied the life he took on and how regardless of everything around him, what was truly important were the things he pursued for himself. The idea was just the beginning for him, the life was just the concept that bore him. All the other factors were so far from complex, they just fell into a vat of hot, steaming bullshit. He knew what he wanted and pursued it with such rigor that I can only try to understand. I try. Sometimes.

There's a lot of stories, and I want to know more. I'm stuck in this imposed battle I've afflicted upon myself. I get wrapped around the little things too often, wishing I could have done this or that or not have done that or this, but it's funny how motivating the concept of time is for me. It always wins the battle anyways...

"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I have time."

Yeah, that always shuts them up.