I’m back
I passed an old lady on the street today, as I was coming home from the gym.
Her back was badly hunched with age, and she walked jerkily, almost like a marionette. No-one was walking beside her. No husband, son, or daughter offered a supporting arm. Strangers cut their eyes to the side as she passed. I met her gaze for a moment, and offered a small smile, but her eyes slipped away from mine without registering a greeting. Still, I caught a kind of tired, sepia optimism that made my chest ache a little bit just seeing it. Was she hoping to catch a glimpse of a relative in the faces of the strangers on the street? Is she a lonely spinster, still hoping to find a true love to brace her as she walks? Or, perhaps, she was simply looking forward to a hot cup of tea and an electric blanket.
Passions and comforts. When do the latter begin to take precedence over the former, and is this a blessing, or a tragedy? When does one stop aching for a true love, a great adventure, or to do great things? When does one begin to hope simply for the small pleasures of a warm bed on a cold night, and a book to whisper stories of the adventurer that you could have been (or used to be)? Is it a tragedy to not have a great, yawning expanse of time and possibility before you, or is it a pleasure to be able to truly treasure the small joys of life?
Passions rule my life right now, even if I may not have the courage to take hold of them. Comforts, to me, are pitiful substitutes. Food and drink sometimes has little flavor, and letters in books simply disappear into a great boiling space behind my eyes. Yet, in quiet times like these, with a glass of water and the soft click of the keyboard... sometimes it's almost like seeing into the future, and my passions are shut away into a little space, to gather strength for a new assault.
I hope the old lady still treasures great passions. I hope, for her sake, that she finds comfort in them, not despite them.