(I have another urge to write, but about what?)
The days seem to pass by both slowly and quickly; everything passes, and so we march on. This is life: briefly infinite and infinitely brief.
I’ll tell you of the girl I saw today. We sat across from each other, perfect strangers in this perfectly strange world, and I glanced at her, and her eyes met mine. We looked away, and we looked back two more times. I wonder where she is now and how she is doing. I’m probably just a single fleeting moment in her life, but I think I’m okay with that. All of these strangers, extras in the production of life—my own staging of it.
It’s peculiar to think that perhaps our threads touch but never quite intersect. Rarely they do. What would have happened if I decided to let them cross? Would my life be any different? It’s a thought to pull apart and stitch back together for another day. I know I should live in the present, but my mind can’t help but turn back the clock.
And now, I think, is a good time to tell you good night. These musings can wait for tomorrow; the light of day will do them good.