It is 2 am, I am staring out the window, soft music, everyone else asleep.
In some ways, very little has changed. My room has remained more or less the same, my shelves still filled with the books from ten years ago, furniture unchanged. Perhaps I am actually dead, and my room has been left untouched for my memory. But I doubt it.
More and more I find the need to live. To care less, but to live more. To live boldly, cheerfully, recklessly, passionately. To be generous, to be selfish.
To dismantle the expectations I had, my old dreams, and put up new ones. Not dreams to be happy, not dreams of what I want, because those dreams will ultimately disappoint, but dreams that somewhere in the distance, the shore will meet the sea, by which these trappings are shed.
Meanwhile, with that thought, I can be cheerful. Against the distance between here and the horizon, I can measure all else by their true diminutiveness.
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