Dear World

What a day. Much the same as any other Friday in February -- or Tuesday in November, or Thursday  in March, for that matter. Fulfilling all the usual tasks, checking all the usual boxes, attending all the usual classes and meals and daily rituals required of thousands of other persons in my position. Another span of twenty four hours without writing a single creative word. Another morning I tell myself, "today will be different. Today things will change. Today, I will walk to the ends of the earth -- I will win the lottery -- I will meet a celebrity -- I will find the map to the Fountain of Youth -- I will change the course of history." And, some will tell you that by merely existing, I do influence our existence here on earth. I suppose so; but I wish I could do it in a more interesting way, or with more visible results. I guess that's what they call instant gratification. But still, when you think about it, we continue to live our lives in such a very strange, small way; I look outside my window, and all is darkness, except for a little golden square of light in the window of the house next door. I can't see into the window; I don't know anything that is happening. But I imagine a vague, generic neighbor, sitting and reading -- or watching TV -- or knitting -- or dozing off -- or writing letters -- or playing solitaire. So close, yet a complete enigma. Maybe my neighbor is not alone, but spending time with a family member, or a friend; perhaps they are talking about their upcoming trip to Peru -- their last Christmas with a relative -- buying a dog -- left-handed tennis players -- T. S. Eliot's "Four Quartets." Perhaps they aren't talking about anything at all interesting; perhaps they are merely reviewing their day, which was much the same as any other Friday in February. Perhaps there is no one in there at all; someone forgot to turn the light off, and so it stays lit all through the night, keeping watch over the darkness over the earth.