I don’t think it’s possible for my eyes to feel any heavier than they do now. And yet, there’s some kind of comfort in knowing the source of strain to be, among other things, a smoked brat on a spring afternoon, its meaty vapors nestling just below my nostrils, and Don Quixote’s misunderstood meanderings doing all they can to illumine my own.
Nothing all that “revelatory” happened today–no quotes were crafted, no decisions cemented. But there’s something beautiful in that, too, a kind of obtainable beauty, like a dad who throws blueberries into the pancake batter because he knows his child has a rough day ahead.
All these beauties, who are no less beautiful in their frequency, come to us like a curious ladybug exploring the mysterious mass that is my barefoot on a mild, dry noon atop the porch’s third step. They meet you where you are.