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Hip
young things that we are, Deb and I were tucked up in bed by 9.30pm
last night. It seemed even less like a New Year's Eve than usual.
I guess it's a tough place to be for a New Year's Eve, destined
to always live in the shadow of the turn of the millennium. Still,
some consolation — there are only 12 days each century where
you have the same digits for the day, the month and the year.
I
was feeling slightly melancholy last night, but in a good way.
It was a mellow melancholy, it was a wonderfully Gewurztraminer-induced
melancholy.
You
could die tomorrow, and your live and loves and laughs and hopes
and fears would be the ones you take to the grave with you. Would
you be satisfied with them?
You
can shore up a life with money and books and thoughts, and build
all that you can to surround and buffer and comfort yourself.
But I wonder what you would crave if you could have only one last
thing to remember? And I wonder how important would seem the things
that seemed so important?
Yet
how can you live a life just in the moment, fully, as though it
might be the last?
I
think in a way I've always thought of myself as a project. Something
I'm building, creating, melding. To what end? To make myself a
better person? To impress others? To be liked?
…
I
don't know what to write. I write from the words out, rather than
from the thoughts in. I wait for the words to appear, or search
them out (it amounts to the same), and try to craft them to an
entry.
…
Debbie
is in bed. Snuggled and curled up against her seems a wonderful
place to be right now. To love, and be loved, seems, right now,
to me, to be the one last thing I would remember.
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