Today I have the time to write, but there isn’t anything I want to write about. Not my fingertips, sore from heavy garden work in Mom’s leather gloves. Not my yard, lovely and filled with promise. Not my dreams, uncomfortable and seemingly empty of meaning.
There’s nothing to write about, not the same old things or anything earthshattering and new. The same people, the same work. The same face in the mirror. The same train whistle in the not-too-distance, on its way to somewhere. I don’t even feel particularly curious where – I, who used to gaze up at the sliver of a jet traversing the blue and wonder to what faraway place all those people were headed.
These days I don’t wonder much about things. There are so few answers that satisfy. Even a material answer doesn’t satisfy the big-picture question that underlies all things – why? Any of it? Why worry? Why accept? Why try?
Yet we always worry. We strive for acceptance. We can’t help but try. The fact that we do is underscored by a certain hope, an innocence. It defies logic and is at times impractical, but still, there it is. There’s no way around it. To hope feels right.