There are mornings in which the bridge is barely visible. Days when the greyish morning mist consumes the space between me and what my eyes can’t reach. I think days like these only exist to teach us how to see what lives in this side of the fog, close to us. And I do it, look at what’s touching me differently today though always in that same familiar way.
Surprises me the green dripping from the dense rows of pine trees circumscribing the asphalt, worn off from the feet of those who just walk for the sake of doing it. A man in blue runs for his health and I, watching him pass me by and ignoring his following absence.
The nature in the world is of tiny difference from the nature of life. To appreciate the fresh stagnant breeze that breathes me whenever I look down only to take notice of the brown turf of dying leaves I unwillingly step on, that’s living.
We’re here to learn with them and with the man and the pine trees and with everything they consent. I live from them but rarely for them and in the end, I’m normal for doing it so, showing no thought nor caution.
Do it for yourself before it grows undone. Life is to be searched for, however, the temptation of finding it to understand it, diffuses us in mysterious ways and even I who thought myself capable of educating the inevitable couldn’t avoid one or other untamable uneasiness.
Being uncommon isn’t for everyone, and clearly not for those who expeditiously crave it. For even the rarities can’t despise the randomness surrounding the way they were brought to life, and if they somehow do it, they regret it.
Existence is inconstant, perhaps inconsistent, and of the involuntary livelihood I won’t even speak as it owes so very little if nothing at all to the incongruent irregularity carried on in life by those who are mere voyeurs and believers of it, as if something factual were we addressing. Living an illusion isn’t that bad is it?