On the Delicacy of Fossils

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.


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