It’s 20:09 here in Oakland, California. Sun is setting and I’m glancing at it through the window as I write this. Too bright still, so now I’m seeing purple blobs everywhere.
I saw an ad earlier for a piece in the Atlantic by Alan Lightman (which, cool name) titled The Ordinary Miracle of Existing. Underneath it said “being alive at all is the most extraordinary stroke of good luck any of us will ever experience” and, well… isn’t it?
I saw the ad when scrolling mindlessly on Instagram, feeling the weight of a week that felt sort of off. Feeling sorry for myself maybe. Feeling stressed and a bit anxious.
I’m alive though, right?
I’m fucking alive.
It’s a miracle.
It’s a miracle that you’re here, too. That we’re here together. That we get to share this experience briefly before we’re stardust again. It’s terrifying and inexplicable but mostly it’s a miracle. You don’t expect an Instagram ad to change your day. You might expect an Atlantic essay to. I haven’t read it.
I’ll go back and forth on this. It’s a miracle to be alive but it’s okay to be stressed about things that feel small compared to death; compared to life. We need a roof over our heads. We need to eat, and to sleep, and be safe. The United States of America hasn’t heard much about social safety nets.
It’s 20:20 here in Oakland, California. Cacio is curled up next to me. The sun has disappeared behind the trees now. I want to write. All I want to do is write. You need to live to have something to write about though. Can’t only write.
I’ve got to pick up dinner. I’ll maybe finish a bit of work I feel behind on. I’ll maybe read something. Maybe write some more. Maybe sleep. I don’t know. It’s been a long week.
I hope you feel alive today.