I walked home yesterday with the exhausted temperament of emptiness, an existential cleanliness that is reserved mostly for the rich and bored or the worried. The purpose of all of our efforts forward meant nothing in the presence of such soft air, which rested on my skin as I plowed through life one heavy human step at a time. Where was I going, anyway?
This morning’s sun shone mustard through the emptying fog, diffuse and soft in its own sleepiness yet never resting to invite us along. Kundera’s lightness had been lifted now that I had my prized company, but still the energy of days that repeat and people that walk forward to their offices to live again the tedium of yesterday’s hours permeate my empty halls. I am alone on this floor, I sit at a desk, and I drink tea after my coffee.
I have a day off tomorrow to fill with boredom and tasks that get me no closer to any ultimate goal. I have been content to love and revel in beauty as life goes on, and yet I still am, but this contentedness is becoming more and more pointless as I wake and rise to ever more love and ever more beauty. What good does an increasing and limitless supply of life’s purpose give you? How do I go about spending my vast wealth of gratitude and my over abundant supply of joy in each minute’s revelation? Every cell is overwhelmed. Yet it is not appropriate to walk from place to place in tears because you are besieged by life and living.
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