It’s such a beautiful day today.
I’m working on my bed and finding it very difficult to concentrate given the unrelenting blueness of the sky and the persistent sighing of the trees.
It’s a beautiful moment—not so beautiful that the instant gets lost in anesthesizing sentimentality, but beautiful enough to soothe the generalized suffering of life just a little.
(I wonder how many of our days, our moths, our years, get rescued by odd, anonymous moments like these. The details themselves eventually blur; all that’s left is a hazy memory of things being strangely all right.)
And what is writing if not an attempt to fossilize experience? (To etch an imprint, an outline, a trace of the living body of a moment.)
And now that I’ve preserved the moment for posterity, I’m going back to enjoy it.