He sits at the coffee shop with a silver pen and a cheap notebook on the table. He is at it again: Ready to write the story that would uncover the reason to all being. The one that would solve all the mysteries of life… No wonder most of his stories go unfinished and untold.
He grabs his pen and opens his notebook with a point to make… For ten minutes, he sits there tapping the back of his pen onto the ceramic table top. He puts his pen back on the table and puts his head in his hands… He concedes that he does not have a point to make… Not this time… He concedes that he does not, and probably never will, have this all figured out. He concedes that there is no light at the end of the tunnel… That there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow… That it is, what it is.
He becomes very well aware of his weaknesses and insecurities. He thinks back to all the mistakes he made… to all the decisions, that he would argue with you to the death, that he never, not for once, regretted making… None of it seemed to matter… None of it seemed to bother him… He found himself basking in the glow of his own vulnerability. He embraced his own fragility. He appreciated the lack of control he had over his own life. He savored that feeling of fear that accompanied that notion. His own visions and convictions no longer weigh him down.
He was just happy sitting there, tapping his pen on the table and smiling at how it all happened.
He was alive, and, for once in a very long time, very aware of that fact…