I am tired of big moments. Unprecedented this or that. There’s a reason that “may you live in interesting times” is considered a curse and not a blessing.
I’m craving something small. A week where very little happens. At least nothing that I’ll remember years from now. Where I can just live and be happy, even if it isn’t anything to write home about.
Heck, I’d be excited to have an unremarkable day even.
Is that not possible? A morning then. I watch my cat with extreme envy. He’s stretched out in a patch on sunlight on the rug, his belly exposed. His limbs are stretched impressively far. His eyes are closed. He’s having a small morning, his fur warmed by the sun.
I wish I could be that happy. I watch him for a few moments more, and as I do, that envy blooms into something else — I’m happy that he’s happy. It’s almost like I’m sunbathing myself. That I’m a cat too, devoid of responsibilities and small enough that a single patch of sunlight can easily warm me.
That’s the issue too, isn’t it? That it’s so easy to want more and more from the world until you can’t be happy with the small things.
It’s then that I suspect that there’s plenty in my life to warm me. And that I’m looking past it somehow. Because I’ve gotten bad at registering it properly. I’ve become terrible at fully absorbing those experiences.
I’ve been numbed by the big things I would have never asked for.
And I think that’s why when you go to hold me later, I feel the sensation of your skin on mine with a sharpness I haven’t felt in ages. I’m newly aware of how good you smell.
I never stopped loving you, never stopped finding you utterly delicious. But a lot of little things receded into the background for a while when they really shouldn’t have.
It’s time to change that.