You will have to excuse my typos and arrant maunderings, as I am trying to wrap my arms around the cat occupying my lap and several acres of warm quilt. When you’re a cat, in your accustomed spot, at the accustomed hour, purring the accustumed purr, life is good. I think I approach that feeling in the moments when you’re sitting comfortably, digesting a bit too much of delicious home-baked pizza, not thinking of anything in particular, just being there, and in the center there’s that little bit of bliss that whispers, happy to be here.
And then you starting thinking, Why should I be happy to exist? There’s clearly a survival value is preferring to continue existance, in pursuing those moments of happiness we hope to return to. Then you pursue a long line of speculation about long lines of ancestors who did better because they enjoyed wanting to, ignoring the voice that wants your brain to shut up and enjoy the momont, and the voice that says this is pothead thinking, preferring instead the voice that says, you know there might be a story in there somewhere. After all, it’s fun to think about this sort of goofishness and try to put it into words.
Finally, you come up for air and check in, and yup, still happy to be here.
Happy to be here
Writing Every Day 