Half past ten at night. In my pajamas. Already brushed my teeth. Said my amens. Here I am. Sitting in bed. Considering the day, as it was. The happenings, and the things unnoticed. The todos that got done, and those that went by the wayside. The thoughts, and feelings. What came easy, and what did not. Here I am. Sitting in bed. The warm glow of my bedside lamp accompanies my peripheral vision. The same glow shines on the pages of the little, hard-cover, black journal I have in my lap. Here I am. To put pen to paper.
And so, I begin to ink the date in the top left corner of today's page. A date, so special. Entirely unique. It may be forgotton, or not. But, for sure, it stands alone amongst a sea of specials. It will never be repeated.
A flood of thoughts races through my mind, as a recount the hours, minutes, and seconds from the day's beginning. All the things. It's overwhelming. The idea that I could never capture it all. Inevetibaly, this page will contain but a snippet of what was real. A mere puzzle piece to the full picture. I could use more than a page. But for every page I use, ten more would be needed. For the magic that is life, is illusive. Refusing to be captured in its entirety. It's overwhelming. Is it even worth writing down, if what I write can only ever pale in comparison to reality.
But then. Then. I begin to write. And every word that I choose to leave on the page feels like I word that I no longer have to carry. Every drop of ink that leaves the cartridge, feels like a little bit of weight, lifted off my shoulders. Every sentence comes a little easier. Every period an opportunity for the breathe to calm. After each paragraph, a space. A space that says, it's okay not get it all. A space that is happy with what was said; and, is happy with what was not. A space that also says, I'm ready for what's next. For what's done, is done. And all we have now, is now. It's beautiful. As one paragraph gives way to another, and another. Seperate. But also, together. Together, they dance.
Until the dance too, must end. At least, for now. But, as I leave behind the last period, of the last sentence, of the last paragraph, of today. I am not sad that the dance is over. I no longer feel hopeless about what was not be captured. About the words not written. Rather, I am left smiling. Like a dame that was swept off her feet by an expert danseur. I am happy for what happened. And happy, for what didn't. Because the magic lies in the spaces between the words, as much as it does in the words themselves. In the interludes, as much as the paragraphs. In the hours, minutes, and seconds that will be remembered. And those, too, that will be forgotton.
For the magic of life gives some to hold onto. And some to let go of. And I am happy. With what I hold. And what I don't.
Full stop.
"I can shake off everything as I write. My sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn."
- Anne Frank