In the deepest part of the day, when the bottom of the most recent cup glares helplessly at us and we can't conceive of being orderly and efficient for another moment, we suffer. A white-collar suffering is a relative feeling—that is, relatively fine compared to the suffering that goes on in the rest of the world—but those of us with enough fortune in our life to be reading words online are allowed to have pangs, even if we are well fed and mostly secure. See, our decent lot in life is unknown to our soul, which is made of the same stuff as those in Papua New Guinea, Baghdad, Vladistovok, or even Darfur, the saddest place I'm capable of imagining. Our minds and hearts rise and fall with our circumstances, but our soul has its ups and downs independent of our plans. Whether buying Super Bowl tickets or robbing a house for a meal, people know joy from beautiful faces and know pain from a lack of petrichor or even daylit sky, blue with the newly dead.
Still, my soul ascends with what it takes in: your chatoyant eyes in surprising candlelight. My insides are vibrant with this experience that I have not experienced, this memory that will not go into the past. But such clumsy words for something so pure. Let's go pilgrim on this one:
I will be your sooterkin.
Let me be your slobberchops.
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