My idea of being human has involved a lot of pondering about whether any of this is real. Each day I wake up after a series of dreams in which I live other lives, and much of it seems so real.
And these days I wake up and I get to work on the next set of stories, and try my best to make sense of the world around me. I get paid to do this, and I'm grateful for all that had to happen for me to able to be here.
Underneath the old fridge I found an artifact from December 2008, something to add to a collection of talismans about a specific time that radiates throughout the rest of my life. I didn't know that this piece of the puzzle was lost, but now it is waiting to be reconnected to the other specimens.
I somehow seem to get by from day to day by remembering that on other days I had intention to survive and thrive by embracing who I was. That seems a luxury, and I'm programmed to think of any thing luxurious as something I don't deserve.
I've lived in this house now for 15 years with a small gap whose 15th anniversary begins in about a month from now. I can feel that massive quake in my life even now.
Yet here I am, having survived enough to get to this point, a time when I can take a brief pause to capture it one of many places I keep the accounts of who I was at any given moment. Does it matter? Future versions of me, if there are any, will appreciate the information even if many dislike the reliance on the anecdotal.
This is all a roundabout way of saying that at the end of a day where I didn't always feel good about my pathway, I'm at least here and I survived.
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