All, Journal


March 23, 2015

I find few things more enchanting or favorable than seeing a beautiful family or a long in love couple. I can feel the harmony radiating from their peaceful, contented hearts.

Just but a minute ago, a song came on my phone that felt like a sad, slow wave coming over me. I wanted to let it take me back, all the way to the pain and anguish of saying goodbye to her this past year. Only I didn’t; I chose not to simply by skipping to the next track.

Of the eight-thousand-odd-songs in my iTunes library, the top fifty played are surely the most melancholy and nostalgic I own. Whether these songs have been effective palliatives, damning up the tides of memory and assuaging the plague that has flooded my mind on its darkest days or whether they have merely the been the salt, mortar and pestle by which I have antagonized my own wounds and indulged in my own sufferings, I know not – but I see no difference in the two. For if it were possible to overdose on ones own sorrows, I would long ago have; I am a glutton: no one minds my pain as I do, I lay crippled to what others pay no mind to. Perhaps a broken heart is really a sort of suicide; perhaps the artist has no greater vice or adversary than his own pain, which minds not whether he seeks to soothe or revive it but only that he doesn’t forget it. For without his wounds, he might be whole and if whole he would not be forgotten any longer by those who don’t love him. Love me, the pain says. She doesn’t, the pain says. But she did, the pain says. His only answer to the sad slowness, being his pen strokes.

How many times I let that sad, slow wave come over me, heaven knows – but there have been entire days passed in a blanketed coma, my only other solace the pain inducing lyrics of songs I dare not quote or cite. There have been days like that. Heaven knows.

Only now, I’m thinking this life of mine needs a new soundtrack. One devoid of the songs whose notes sting like barbed hooks pulling my heart out through my ears, devoid of the songs that entomb me in a dead, cow-eyed sadness.

I return again to the wisdom of John Gardner; the idea from his tour de force, On Moral Fiction, that good art need be life enhancing – that art should seek to enhance life, rather than debase it – and in this light I ask myself whether listening to the proverbial Blues for thousands of hours as I have has done a damn thing to make my life better?

Maybe it was what I needed to get by. Maybe the change of seasons is bringing a new breeze in through my swollen ears to soothe my pickled and pricked heart. Maybe sad songs were the soundtrack of yesteryear. Either way, my music library is getting a spring cleaning tomorrow. No more sad songs.

No more looking to the beautiful family walking by as I listen to songs about needing, losing, wanting, having, hating, or loving love. I try and remind myself that there’s more to life than love as I write this, but who am I kidding; I might be somebody’s fool, but I’m not my own.

Only, I’d like to forget about love for a little bit. Maybe John Mayer was right when he sang, it’s wanting more that’s gonna send me to my knees. Maybe love is my gravity. Maybe staying where the light is means not letting gravity pull me back. Maybe it’s listening to those songs that remind me I’ve got dreams. Maybe it’s reminding myself that my dreams are bigger than love. Maybe it’s swallowing the truth that all unborn dreams die a thousand deaths in the heart of the dreamer.

All, Journal, MyFavoritez, Prose


Some guys are surfers,
And some guys are sailors
Some guys are saints,
And some guys are sinners
It’s by our own vices or devices,
That we’re losers or winners


March 18, 2015

I’m not even sure how to begin this day’s journal entry; I hope tonight’s words can do today justice. A poem might be better but I’ve been thinking in prose on this day and so in prose I write on this night. Some days I think in poetry but not today, today was a movie, today was a day that needs no reconciling. Today I was at peace with it all, my own flaws included. Reading my entries it’s easy to see that many of them were written in an attempt to accept what unwritten I could not, for there are far too few days like this in my recent memory, far too few days that feel like one long, perfect sunset.

And today wasn’t false, it wasn’t the flattery of being adored, it wasn’t the high of being loved. It was the high of life, my life: alone and happy.

Today gave me an abundance of goodness. Even the imperfect moments were bearable, their imperfections no less perceptible, but somehow made more palatable by the day’s je ne sais quoi.

Yes, I’m not reconciling life, I’m celebrating it, I’m holding onto it, as I should be.

For there was a time when I revelled in life daily, back when I used to take pictures on my beloved Blackberry but I haven’t posted a photo of my own on here since I had that phone, over four years ago. Perhaps owning an Android after far too long spent in iPhone serfdom (footnote 1) has gotten me back into the habit of taking photographs. I hope so.


The above was my view this evening, but the day was beautiful long before the sun began its westward journey toward the horizon. The day was beautiful sauntering down the avenue, the bliss of unknown possibility in my heart. 

For to saunter, as I, is to follow in the footsteps of Henry David Thoreau, who definitively captures the essence – and etymology – of sauntering, or being a saint of the land, within his essay On Walking:

“…sauntering; which word is beautifully derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the middle ages, and asked charity, under pretence of going à la sainte terre” — to the holy land, till the children exclaimed, “There goes a sainte-terrer“, a saunterer — a holy-lander. They who never go to the holy land in their walks, as they pretend, are indeed mere idlers and vagabonds, but they who do go there are saunterers in the good sense, such as I mean. Some, however, would derive the word from sans terre, without land or a home, which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere. For this is the secret of successful sauntering. He who sits still in a house all the time may be the greatest vagrant of all, but the Saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea.

Saunterer, in the good sense, is no more vagrant than the meandering river, which is all the while sedulously seeking the shortest course to the sea.

And so I sauntered, meandering circuitously like a river, my impromptu course leading me first for coffee (naturally), then to Pennywise Books, where I purchased a 1942 copy of Fathers and Sons, whereafter I met my mom and we ventured to the library’s book sale, where I purchased books too numerous to mention. The day was a roaring success thus far.

After dropping off three grocery bags of books – in a given week I normally borrow a handful from the library and purchase a quarter as many via the typical die hard bibliophile book troves (thrift stores, flea markets, indie book stores), sometimes trading in the unloved at 5th Avenue Books, or taking them to one of the local Little Free Libraries – I once again sought the shortest course to the sea, where I purchased a gorgeous handmade Mexican blanket for ten dollars, having given away its precursor.

Since I often saunter avec (footnote deux) blanket to the beach or park, I like to tote a reusable canvas bag, wherein I carry said blanket, a book or three, my journal (thanks Bunny), pens, a bottle of water, and sometimes medicinal herbs – for you can’t saunter drunk, that’s more of a stumble, but I have it on good word that it’s perfectly safe to saunter high as a kite, provided you have good music to listen to and, of course, headphones because no one wants to hear you sing, but you might sing along regardless; so, go ahead, saunter on, sing along.

Being that I didn’t leave home avec une couverture to read upon, I did not bring a bag to carry one. So, having purchased the new blue and khaki Mexican blanket (a softer, superior textile compared to my previous, overpriced RVCA brand blanket) I simply placed the blanket around my neck, as you would a scarf, letting its ends flank my unbuttoned shirt, under which my T-shirt bore the word Love. Yes, I was full hippie sauntering and my headphones were definitely in.

I was as far west as you can be after following the sun on the shortest course to the sea. I sauntered to the pier, the same ancient wooden pier I once ventured onto with my father during a huge storm, when the pier itself seemed to be sauntering and I hoped it wasn’t on the shortest course to the sea, but alas, the pier survived, we survived.


While out on the pier sauntering and singing, I paused at the pier’s northern handrail (as pictured above) to admire the gulls in the sky and the surfers in the sea. Whilst there, I struck up a conversion with a fellow saint of the pier, a saintperrier if you will (tongue fully in cheek).

John, as he was named, is one of those people who remind you of the power we have to touch the lives of others, even in passing. I know this because John touched my life today. How so? I’ll let time and my adventures tell, but he gave me the courage to do something I’ve long aspired to – since childhood. John gave me living proof I could do it and make memories that would last a lifetime. He gave me proof I could pull it off. Proof I could do it and be happy and free. This is a game changer, thank you John, dearly.

After passing along my contact info and bidding adieu to John I sauntered on, stopping in a new restaurant and bar to give my regards to a friend, and, as evidenced by my Mexican blanket scarf, I wasn’t concerned with fitting in or standing out, I was just sauntering. For as Thoreau said, feeling equally at home everywhere is the key to successful sauntering.

Leaving the dining and drinking establishment I found myself hungry, as a saunterer often does. Having had the caliber of day I did, I knew it would be a perfect night for dinner out with a loved one, and who better to accompany me than my mom. The wonderful thing about calling to invite my mom to dinner – or to invite her to do anything for that matter – is that I know she will be there if she can and I know a good time will ensue.

To my great satisfaction she was up for grabbing dinner. I’ll spare you the details of how we came to arrive at this particular restaurant (for that is a story perhaps only she and I would find amusing) but it was sublime. I cannot wait to return and I just ate it there less than twelve hours ago.

Apres dinner we ate chocolate protein bars for dessert. Coming home, the night was still young but it didn’t matter, for the day had blessed me and the night could do no wrong, for I would only saunter on, singing along (footnote 3), thinking of what dreams and days may come.


Footnote 1: Remaining in any kind of relationship beyond its expiration is never wise.

Footnote Deux: Avec – French for with- as in, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?”, is the opposite of sans- French for without – as in, sans jacket. I am slowly falling in love with French culture. An odd thing for an adult American to say, but perhaps not for a writer; however, I don’t know whether that’s been true for a handful of decades. There is, of course, a rich history of expatriated writers living in Paris, as chronicled within Hemingway’s A Movable Feast, and also in Orwell’s Down and Out in London and Paris; although, what really got me into French culture – beyond the exquisite and hardy cuisine – wasn’t romanticizing the Lost Generation’s romance with France – but, rather, reading James Baldwin’s Another Country and subsequently learning about Baldwin’s life as a French émigré in Paris long after Hemingway, Orwell, Fitzgerald, Faulkner and other denizens of The Lost Generation were gone. Serendipitously, I recently dreamt I was on a flight to France, and despite the aircraft’s precocious flight and being held up in Customs, I nonetheless found it desirous to be there; ironically – or, rather, bizarrely, I began seeing ads on my Facebook and YouTube pages for Air France practically the next day, having not searched for anything French online (other than James Baldwin’s biography, which, even so, is an indirect connection to France.) The ad itself is actually quite beautiful, delightful in fact, with American pop duo Glass Candy’s pulsing synth sounds and soothing female vocals providing the perfect backdrop. Yes, France is in the air. Love is in the air. Bonjour Mesdemoiselles françaises, mon nom est Lawrence Black , oui , l’écrivain. After having mastered así así Espanol con un a veces acento perfecto, Yours Truly is now setting about to learn French! …Ain’t life grand.

Footnote 3: The song I was listening to was a cover of Steve Winwood’s Higher Love, done by James Vincent McMorrow. The James Vincent McMorrow redux feels more like a prayer than a song and the wonderful transcendent feeling I experience listening to it is exactly what I hope to distill from my writing. It’s the same feeling I get reading a great novel. It’s a feeling I want to perfect. It’s a feeling I want to give others, for I don’t know what the world would be like without the arts, but it’s no world I could ever be a part of.

All, Journal


Man I feel like hell. Well, not hell. Hell is a bad hangover on a worse day (What more separation from Christ consciousness is there than that?). No, I don’t feel like hell; I feel like shit.

Shit is dreaming of a departed lover. Shit is dreaming of looking into her eyes and telling her how much you love her, feeling it in the dream – as you never allow yourself in waking life – only to wake up in your bed alone with a headcold and a fever.

That’s shit.

But not all is forlorn: for despite my waking, and sleeping, circumstances, I took charge of the day; I seized it from the jaws of fate – jaws intent on chewing me up and spitting me out, but not today; for I know that the good outweighs the bad, even on my worst day.

(Thank you Mr. West.)

I think I was empowered largely because I read a damn good novel last night, John Updike’s Rabbit Run.

I always fear discussing authors for worry that critics will have easy targets on me when my works are published, but in actuality a good critic will be able to discern my literary DNA regardless, and a bad critic will try and dispel me as a poor imitation of someone better anyway.

Insecurities and plans of grandeur aside, Rabbit Run is a hell of a novel. The protagonist, while loathed by many readers (see Goodreads or Amazon reviews), is not a cypher; I understand him: he is every young man: imperfect, yet developing into something whole because of it. Now, whether Rabbit actually does [become whole again] will have to be discovered in the next book within the quartet, which I believe is, Rabbit at Rest.

Another reason I liked the book (beyond great character development and story arc) is the fact that Updike manages to write the story in beautiful prose unspoiled by Updike’s realist world view. This is no doubt due largely to Updike’s own philosophy, which, while tucked sparsely into the story’s dialogue, is enough to let the reader make his or her own value judgments.

A shining example occurs on page 140:

“No,” Eccles cries in the same strained voice in which he told his wife to keep her heart open for Grace. “Christianity isn’t looking for a rainbow. If it were what you think it is we’d pass out opium at services. We’re trying to serve God, not be God.”

And, further down the page:

“The truth is,” Eccles tells him in a womanish excitement, in a voice embarrassed but determined, “you’re monstrously selfish. You’re a coward. You don’t care about right or wrong; you worship nothing but your own worst instincts.”

Maybe that’s why I understand Rabbit. Maybe because for a long time I too, like Rabbit, was monstrously selfish.

But I can’t help but believe what Rabbit still seemed to believe at the story’s conclusion, that, “the world can’t touch you once you follow your own instincts.”

Because, as Rabbit said, “If you have the guts to be yourself, other people’ll pay your price.”

This gives me hope Rabbit can make it, but it also gives me something larger; it gives me the hope I need to make it. This sense of hope, I believe – as influenced by the literary philosophies of John Gardner and Ayn Rand – is the life affirming stuff that distinguishes good fiction, such as Dostoyevsky’s The Death of Ivan Ilyich, from damn good fiction, which I find Updike’s Rabbit Run to be.

p.s. Remember, damn good, is much better than good, but it’s still short of the best, which, as a reader and a writer, I always hope is still to come.


15 March 2015: Intact

An early morning – after a nice mellow, late night. A tired day, weighted down by the things that weigh days heavy on the shoulders of sons.

Heavy things, akin to the things that come with a given life, for every life has its tragedies; every family its misfortunes.

Nevermind my ambiguity. Putting this on paper won’t change the unalterable reality of it.

Some things are what they are; you can’t let your heart break under their weight. There’s a certain amount of innocence you have to maintain in order to keep your soul intact. For if you let that sacred part of yourself go, you’ll have a dammed hard time getting it back – for it won’t be gone, but lost. Finding it’s another matter.

Finding it requires distancing yourself from the adult world and doing those things that too as a child allowed you to tap into the wellspring of goodness within you. Maybe it’s walking, maybe it’s a particular book (Treasure Island). Maybe it’s a cartoon or a movie with mom. Anchors to places you once loved are invaluable – for you still love them – so hold fast through the dark night.

All, Journal, Timeless Truths

Mar 11, 2015: Soul

I walked down to the shore tonight so I could look up upon the stars and marvel in wonderment at the feeling of connecting to something eternal. I walked down here so I could look up at the sky tonight and ask the universe if I’m living it right.

To my mild disappointment I can see no stars, their shine obscured from my vision by a concrete sky of clouds, their presence above me is foreboding, as if their purpose were to keep me grounded in this California town tonight, unable to dream about another California town, unable to dream about another time.

The Native American streak in my soul tells me this is a metaphor, a lens through which I may see my situation in a different light – should I choose to interpret it so.

I have no doubt that man has found life’s deeper meaning in nature since man’s beginning – and while I’m faraway from the dawn of man, clouds and sunsets remain unchanged. They reflect upon oceans and lakes in an eternal mirage of something unreachable yet deeply familiar. They center and calm like warm milk or a tender lover.

I bask in nature’s glory as often as possible, and almost always on a good day; however, tonight’s drab sky feels like a cheap painting – far from glorious.

But these thoughts are little more than my way of avoiding that Native American metaphor, the idea that the universe has fated for my thoughts to remain grounded under this inglorious sky. For tonight I cannot wistfully look to the stars to find the answers I seek. Tonight I must be here now.

(Sits up straight, breathes deeply, changes music on phone, stretches.)

So I’m here, now.

I’ve got a lot of work to do, a lot to think over. I need to be decisive about exactly where I am going to invest my time this year. Inaction is action nonetheless.

I believe I’ve finally found some strong overlap between my business experience and my passion, but it’s not my passion, that of course being writing – and, more and more lately, reading.

Back home, thinking about some medical cannabis and some vanilla ice cream to go with this James Vincent McMorrrow I’m listening to. This is what my single life has come down to. My joys have been reduced to your typical single twenty something’s favorite mind adulterants. But, I shouldn’t be so austere. After all, I’m not thirty yet (thank you metabolism).

Ice cream or no ice cream, that is the question. Alright, ice cream, but asleep by three, and up for a run before getting to work tomorrow. Everything in moderation, that is the challenge.


Fat, high, happy. Listening to Drake’s “Now and Forever” off If You’re Reading This it’s Too Late.

It’s nice to enjoy some Hip Hop, having been turned off from much of it after Reading John Gardner’s On Moral Fiction, where Gardner posited that art should seek to enhance life, rather than debase it. An idea subsequently bolstered after reading Ayn Rand’s The Romantic Manifesto. However not all Hip Hop is about mindlessness, just the popular stuff.

That being said, I’m back again listening to Van Morrisson’s Astral Weeks (a masterpiece).

I just took a pause from writing this to mindlessly peruse my Facebook feed, ironically, or rather, serendipitously, I came across this image:


Sometimes things are too clear to ignore – too obvious.

My soul tells me that I can’t smoke enough weed, or eat enough ice cream to silence it. It speaks whether I listen or not. It speaks in the small fistful of anxiety jostling the pit of my stomach, and it speaks in the lack of inner peace that has disturbed me all day. I just sometimes don’t want to listen to it. I sometimes don’t want to face the truth. Sometimes I’d rather get high and eat ice cream. Sometimes I’d rather look to the stars and my books for answers. But all those things offer is the solace of escape, the reminder that all this is somehow temporary.

Unlike the stars and my books, my soul sometimes tells me things I don’t want to hear, but must.

My soul tells me that I’m worried about my father, that I’m not living life right on all accounts, and that I need to work harder to progress towards my goals. Its no wonder I don’t care to listen to it. Sigh. But I must. For too many men place their fate in the stars and not in themselves. And no book but the one I write can speak for me.

All, family, Journal, MyFavoritez

March 9-10, 2015: Deepened and Family

There are days when you know you have changed, days when you notice a marked difference in the feeling of your disposition, days when you know there has been a significant shift in your outlook. Tonight I stand on the dock I grew up on, knowing there is no going back to yesterday.

There is a sadness to it, but it’s no more sad than leaving summer camp, knowing you won’t see the girl again. For I know I no longer have the chance to be loved for the boy I was. Those loves have come and gone.

Now, I feel as I’ve never felt: I feel like an adult man. The truth is, up until tonight I’ve never been much more than a boy – and now, the guilt of all I have done as a boy is upon me. The breakups, the fights, the selfishness, the abandonment – of myself and others – is clear, as it never has been. I can relate to the lyric in ‘Waitin’ on The Day’, where John Mayer sings, Waitin’ on the day where that voice comes to say, that it’s not wrong what you did for just a kid.

Maybe it’s time to be honest with myself about my crimes and to find out why I’ve committed them so I can forgive myself, so I can begin to forgive others, so I can live as purely as I did before I ever had my heart broken.

Note: above paragraph inspired by the following James Baldwin passage in his novel Another Country:


In the words of David Foster Wallace, “The truth will set you free, but not until it is finished with you.”

It’s time for me to take the lessons away from the pain. It’s time for me to become the man I was always meant to be. Remaining a boy simply isn’t an option for me anymore. Boyhood is over, and I think I’m okay with that. I think I’m okay with the challenge of being a man, because I know the challenges of boys are greater.

I’m not sure whether this shift is a normal maturation of a man’s priorities or just some gift handed down to me from the heavens. Either way, I’m ready to say goodbye to my twenties and the fears they contained.

Much has come to pass in these last ten years, but the things I love remain the same and my dreams haven’t changed.

As a boy I dreamed of being a good man, of having a family, of being happy, of sailing places, and of being loved and respected for who I was. As a man, I’m tired of dreaming. I’m ready to fulfill the promises I made to myself as a boy, on this dock, all those years ago.

Perhaps the fact I am standing on this dock, a place steeped so rich in memory for me – perhaps this is helping to highlight the significance of the change I feel tonight. As Nelson Mandela wrote in his autobiography, A Long Walk to Freedom: “There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered.”

Tonight, I have a deepened sense of myself. Some change has arisen within me, and I’m so ready.


10 March: Family

I’m slightly stoned, and I don’t particularly feel like writing – but I know I should because if I don’t, I’ll just lie here thinking of all the same things anyway.

Yesterday’s internal shift continued to show itself today. Ironically, I wanted to write about family last night, but as I was wearing shorts and it was cold on the dock, I ceased my writing when I could no longer stand the chill. But to add clarification about last night’s psychic Bar Mitzvah of sorts, the feeling isn’t only that I am passing from boyhood to manhood, but that specific changes in my priorities are driving this change of seasons in my life.

Specifically, family. Maybe it’s because I’m spending the first significant span of time in the last ten years single and as result am spending more time with my own family. Maybe it’s because I have a baby nephew around. Surely both are important factors in the changes I am feeling but it’s more than that. It’s the fact that I feel like they can count on me now. It’s the fact that I am seeing that they need me. As I too am seeing I need them.

I feel terrible to write this, but I love them more than I ever have. It makes me feel better knowing that I also know them better than I ever have, but my increased feelings of love for them are more a product of the fact that I am no longer so obsessed with myself.

In my early twenties I knew I wanted a family, but my focus was on all the things that augmented my manhood – essentially, the same things most early twenties guys care about: their girlfriend, their car, and their image. I had a material life and I was successful based on my definition of success at the time, but my consciousness existed in a bubble trapped on the material plane.

I was also as selfish and arrogant as most early twenties guys are; although, based on the older men I knew and looked up to at the time, I thought all the cooler men shared my priorities.

It’s not just your priorities that change as you get older, but what you look up to and value changes as well. Now that I am nearing thirty next month, I still want success, sure, but it’s a different kind of success I seek. Yes, I desire copious amounts of money – but for completely different reasons than I did, even a year ago. I think time and life and loss have humbled me. I think the chip on my shoulder has been worn down. Thank G-d.

I always assumed I would meet my girl before I made my money. Well, I’ve done that twice and it hasn’t worked out – for good reasons. Frankly, I’m not going to wait for a women to come along and build the dream with me – and in all honesty, that’s a much tougher proposition to sell at thirty than it is at twenty-four. Young women find ambition sexy, women find success sexy – but that’s not what drives me. I live a heart-centered life. I’m not vying for anything less than wifey of the century. Material girls need not apply.

However, as a man there is no biological expiry date on my baby batter. Maybe I’ll be forty when I meet my wife. Who knows.

Regardless of how old I am when I start a family, I’m planting the seeds now. People are counting on me. I’m counting on me. It’s a long time till forever, but i’m learning I can be a family man and be single. It’s a beautiful thing.

Life is about relationships. Connection. And maybe I’ll make a forever home for the right girl someday but relationships sometimes end. Even after years. Family however, is always there. And should the Gods see it fit for me to walk to the alter then I intend it to last a lifetime, heaven willing. But right now I am so blessed to be near my family.

Which is difficult given that I want to get a place in LA again soon (I’m one of those freaks who LOVES El Lay). But honestly, I don’t even want to think about leaving them right now. They need me. And I need them.

All, Journal, Poetry

Mar 5, 2015, Lucky

We live in a disposable society,
and breakable

And Love is dead –
For we lost the connection to our souls,
When we traded in our dreams for goals

We have sold out,
Pawning our values for valuables,
And relinquishing our selves for selfies
The persona is more important than the person,
And your looks worth more than your books –
Let’s not forget the material,
For we spend health chasing wealth,
And we see not the truth until both are squandered –
Look how far we’ve wandered


I wrote the above poem with nearly all the angst and might that I carry. I didn’t so much as bare my soul in doing so, but rather – I freed it by pouring some of my most frequent and dark feelings about life into those sixteen lines.

Because, sure, shit is fucked up – the world isn’t perfect; however, I am a damn lucky guy.

You see; although the world isn’t as I think it should be, I know that I am blessed – blessed to have lived the life I have lived and blessed to have the absolute freedom to go on living, to go on loving, despite the state of the world.

What I’m learning is that although society might seem misshapen and lost, I need not be; I need not be a product of it, I can be a denizen of my own world, a world in which I decide where I direct my attention and my intention.

My mom showed me something on Pinterest tonight about being thankful for what you have had for someone else may never have had it at all.

And I’m coming to view time so much less linearly. No longer do I see past or present; instead, I’m coming to see gratitude as an eternal feeling – for joy need not be fleeting. Joy can be eternal.

I am so lucky. Lucky for having been loved so much. Lucky for the amazing beer cheese soup I made tonight, and I’m not sad that the meal is over, for I am full, and I will be hungry again, but I will not regret the joy of having enjoyed tonights meal, just as I will not regret one kiss, one embrace – much less a thousand.