In this moment, when I am too weak to raise my defenses, when I am too tired to try and laugh at myself, when I am too spent to pretend that anything and everything is funny, I can try and reflect, try to recount the tale of the days gone past, and the indelible mark made on my soul.
I will claim that the fatigue has scrambled my brain, but mostly likely, the reality is that thinking about this is always hard. I am always unsure that the paths I am treading are the paths that I should tread, unsure if I haven’t made a wrong turn somewhere, and that I missed my calling.
There are a million things that my heart yearns for, none of them within striking distance, no, none of them even on the horizon. At the beginning of this journey, I only have the surety of motion, the sun rising in the east, the pedal to the metal, the destination not yet imagined. There is only the joy of the road, the bliss of the journey, the paradoxical peacefulness of uncertainty. The magic of treasures yet undiscovered, the pure wonder of surprise.
My happiness is inextricably linked with expectation. With anticipation. Not of anything specific per se. I only harbor this feeling, perhaps misguided, that things are going to turn out well.