I rarely live in he moment except as midnight approaches on New Year’s Eve. I am there now at 11:30 p.m. I feel the hard kitchen stool, the fake marble island (actually a peninsula), the tragic aria from La Bohème on the radio, the blood in my veins returning tired to be refreshed, the profound sense of being merely me. Soon I will return to pretence, to the noise of my brain chattering as though my thoughts mattered and the wreck and ruin of my life will again recede.
Happy New Year