Nothing is indefectible. The car is clean and it’s raining. I love you but I’m not the only one who has. These are hard things for idealists.
Living in a way that’s built up around preconditions for that verysame way of living. Inflexibility as though by right of having chosen “this” path, presuming singularities left and right. Difficulty of accepting disruption, like listening to hammering upstairs all Saturday morning. Didn’t go to an office all week to pay for this, he says.
He says, but he’s me too, and I remember one day recently saying, probably for his benefit, did some things well today and others just ok and what does any of that matter when it’s all just fine anyway and I didn’t even cringe at the quaintness, didn’t balk at the rhyme, didn’t care if he did either.
Hearing that from my own mouth, then sleeping it off—or on—I awoke to the decision sitting quietly beside the bed in the curtained dawn and it said introduce something theoretical to the daily reading mix and something in both of us—he and I— said ok, let’s maintain a slightly different balance to make up for the fact that, one might purport, the life lived isn’t lived sufficiently in thought, or sufficiently lived in thought, or sufficiently thought to be lived—such was the wisdom, I supposed, and how’s that for putting it unfairly, ideally?
Ideally, I love every minute with you, every first and every second those minutes bring. And the plain and simple present easy beautiful truth is I do, no matter what falls from the sky or is heard through the walls.