It’s so easy to forget that our own life is not the only life. You know that you’re not unique. You’re not some magical snowflake. You’re not anything that hasn’t been done before; that doesn’t exist in some form out there.
It’s hard though. It doesn’t make the living any easier. The reason any more rational. The feeling any softer.
Christmas is looming and I can’t remember a Christmas I enjoyed, but I am looking forward to the cards. I rarely check my mail because it is mostly junk with a cleverly disguised bill but I do treasure the cards. Friends I don’t speak to on the regular are floating about and asking me for an address. Something hard and pretty will come in the mail soon and I’ll be reminded of all those times. All those times I managed to stop thinking and reach out of myself long enough to make an impression, to be remembered. They’ve already started coming in the mail at work and I know some of it is obligation, but what a strange season that people feel obligated to be kind. What a strange hobby. I’d rather smell pine needles and be alone with my cards.
I guess if I’ve learned one thing: we’re doing it wrong.