Confronting the day before you. Striving to achieve some goal to which you’ve given ample weight, but has no real meaning nor value. An object you’re moving towards, far enough in the distance to be forever out of reach but not too far that it seems ridiculous to dream. The Sisyphean burden we all share in moments of silence and sadness and joy.
It all boils down to tiny moments, recalled in slow motion. The quiet and dimly lit street on a cool night, stretching for miles ahead of you on a brisk walk. A smile exchanged with a perfect stranger for no other reason than a shared unspoken feeling. A bird perched on a branch, scanning the horizon. The pop-up notice begging for your attention. A quiet night curled up with a book. The fleeting feeling of accomplishment. An embrace that lets you know you’re okay.
The existential dread of our historical moment. Sheltered and waiting. Sheltered and waiting.
