then on friday.

After class (which I need to stop attending hung over), I spent the afternoon in the Botanical Gardens writing, and I think that maybe I have forgotten what it feels like to write things that actually mean something to me. When I wrote the last sentence, I felt clean again. I spent that time writing a treatise on the mutability of all human connection and how clean we all must feel all the time because every interaction that we ever take part in is terribly clean, terribly disconnected, terribly temporary.

And I thought: Isn't it sad that (though you may feel happy now) you may never be able to imagine all of the happiness you have not yet experienced? Isn't it blissful that your next step will only lead you to a life apart from the happiness you know now and into a happiness you never could have defined without leaving your past behind you? Isn't it terrible that everyone you love is replaceable? Isn't is liberating to know that every person you meet, who you spend a night with, who you have a conversation with, has the ability to show you new ways of feeling mundane things?

Isn't it wonderful, depressing, fabulous, futile, freeing, devastating? Doesn't it make you want to give up and settle? Doesn't it make you want to run away and scream at the top of your lungs?

My response to this epiphany is to drink margaritas, stand on the top of a tall building, stretch backwards, and watch the city sparkle upside-down.