“I want to write a book about nothing,” he said. “About ordinary lives. Plain. Uneventful. Boring even. There’s happiness there. That’s life.” I looked at him from across the table. I commended his ambition. All the same, I could see past his lie. He would not be happy with an ordinary life. I don’t think I would be either.
I am, for the first time in the very long time, in anger. I am not angry, I am not screaming, I am not consumed by it in the way that I am used to. I dragged myself out of the ocean of misery and sadness that I was wading in directionless yesterday and found myself upon a field of flames. I let it singe my fingers but it does not take me. And yes, I feel alive.