These days

I think it's a mistake to accept life's banalities without discrimination or discernment, to let those prosaic insipidities accumulate like a descending mist of tiny, indivisible and irreducible errands, slowly filling up the bracket of each day, the hours devoured by the trite, the tedious and the trivial. Consciousness is a disposition too complex to be concerned with what is stale and vapid, and what takes over when consciousness melts away is the same insentient, obtuse oblivion that keeps the clouds afloat and gives worker ants their zest for labour.

Sometimes colour seems to drain from the world, especially in moments like these when the streets are filling up with rain and you can't tell the hour of the day by the shade of the sky, and time spends itself in the slow, steady count of one to twelve. I spend it on the piano, with a book, or in thought, during days like these when the world is washing out to sea in the rain. Thankfully there'll be no space for banalities in the next few months, because life has been too good for that: life, which we should speak of only in the present tense, and though we may wave to the past and at the future, we must remember to spend our time in the present doing more than waving. I also remember you, for life reminds me about you, and you remind me about living.