2012. Four years! And when I look back, most of the last rumblings of my quill were to bemoan the silence of it. What is easier, starting or remaining started?
It is snowing outside my window and life is framed for those short seconds. My mind grapples to comprehend fleeting beauty. Should I look at the flurry of giggling snowflakes? Should I look at the amused trees, wizened by many a winter? Should I look at the orchids on my windowsill, who stare in frank disdain of the cold?
It is what we choose to see that makes us who we are. How does it matter, you wonder. Wouldn’t life be made of the big decisions, the big choices? When the layers of textbook happiness are peeled away, sparkling moments come floating by. These small, seemingly innocuous droplets of time come back to us with such intensity that we are forced to travel back with them. Each moment is magnified and cherished to bloom into the flowers of love. That’s all I remember of a week ago. That’s all I remember of six years ago.
When I write such into nothingness, it bounces right back. An echo of love. An echo of moments treasured. And if this can be an echo, there is no such thing as unrecruited love. There are no endings, only bright beginnings and endless, endless togetherness.
Perhaps that is what the snowflake does. Gives herself to be the best she can be in this very moment. It matters not that she was a molten mess before and it matters not that she will be drunk by the famished earth after. All that matters is now.
At this moment, she is at her most beautiful. At this moment, all I can see is her. And before either of us realizes it, we have become two halves of a self-fulfilling prophecy. I choose to see beauty in this moment, she chooses to exude beauty in this moment, and finally, the moment is as beautiful as it always should have been.
And if you are very, very quiet, you can almost hear Merton muttering in his grave about our utter destruction of his definition of self-fulfilling prophecies.. ah well, every moment has its man.