I eat three Belgian chocolates for breakfast and the clock has not struck 9 am. I can’t delay gratification because the future is never as real as now.
I’ll turn thirty years old soon, or maybe I won’t. It’s been a nice ride. Nice enough to have touched love naked. Nice enough to have met forty-five countries. Nice enough to have had humor to manage grief. Nice enough to have lived on an island in Thailand and the forests of New England.
I’ll regret not what I’ve done, but what I haven’t managed to do. The half-made film. Three drafts of a novel’s manuscript. The maternal ache for a baby girl.
All of the things that take the measure of years to follow through. All of the things that require prolonging satiation. All of the things that the present cannot complete.
Still, I wake up and I eat the chocolates now. Is contentment knowing how long to wait?
I will die one day.
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