Lately, when I go for evening walks, it’s been cold and clear. I stuff my hands in my pockets and try to disappear inside the puffiness of my jacket. I hate being cold. I made a promise to myself once that I wasn’t going to be cold ever again if I could help it but here I am.
For some reason, it is still January. The month stretches out like a black blanket. I remember the crazy days where I never had enough time to do everything I wanted, where I always felt rushed, where the day ended before I felt like I had even lived. I wonder now what my life was so busy with and how I let everything spiral so out of control. Such a full life but full of what? Mostly clutter.
These days, my life is less full but it is much richer which was always the goal. The concept of time though is still terrifying: how there never used to be enough of it; how there’s suddenly too much.
Sometimes I find myself forgetting that this is my real life and I have a limited amount of time in front of me and that within that time, there will be good days and bad days, days I won’t remember and days I’ll never forget. Life is really just a collection of days. Some have special meaning but most of them don’t.
People walk past me and I wonder if it’s a good day or a bad day for them, if they’re rushing someplace or walking extra slow to take up more time. The glow of lingering Christmas trees still shine out of a few windows; the air is still cold. A man is sitting by the window, typing away on his laptop.
I make it home and take off my jacket, falling into the comfort of a warm bed. It is only 7 o’clock. There is still so much time left to do nothing, to do everything, to do whatever I want.