Moments

It is no secret that I am often cynical and at other times radically depressed. Somewhere along the way I find it really helpful to know that life is composed of moments that pour out in so many different varieties. Some are wonderful, some are unpleasant, some are downright cruel; there are even some moments that even drown out the others.

In some of those moments that I find particularly awful or depressing, I try to list some of the things that make me the happiest. Most of the times I find myself doing that, I think about the moments that on the surface are trivial but are really beautiful and drown out all the unpleasant moments.

Our lease is almost up and the apartment we fell in love with too quickly has lost its luster. It’s in a far too noisy corner of Main Street and not really handy to anything that we need like a pharmacy or store or our bank. Plus the property management make us feel like we’re in a state ward. We are definitely planning on finding a different place.

That conversation has been compounded with a few other conversations Sabrina and I keep circling: starting our family, furthering our careers, buying a car, moving to the PNW. There is quite a bit up in the air and it’s generally a fucking drag.

One moment when I looked at my project lists then my bank statement and reconsidered my whole life trajectory, I remembered another moment. It happened when Sabrina and I were closing in on more definitive plans for the future.

We found ourselves lying disarranged on the bed. She was wearing my Radiohead t-shirt with absolute apathy to their best albums or their most celebrated songs. She stole it a long time ago and severed everything I loved about Radiohead and assigned its meaning to the fact it’s comfortable and that it’s mine. She did the same thing to my Foo Fighters hoodie but that was more about how warm it is than perhaps anything romantic.

But I watched her lie there, chasing a list of possibilities, each more absurd than the last, her smile was perfect. It could’ve cut through from this world to the next.

We entered the realms of truly just ridiculous speculation when in a moment of pure daring, one of us suggested that we buy a car and a hitch to pile in only the things we needed: clothes, work stuff, and the mountain of books amassing in the living room. Every city an obstacle in the path of the journey we would take. No destination would satisfy our thoughts and only the movement and momentum could bring us any joy. I can’t remember which of us proposed that idea, but her eyes lit up like a pinball machine and she let out this sigh that comprised the whole of my universe. It stretched each of these possibilities and exalted the most absurd as the formalized battle-plan for just a second.

The ceiling fan rotated, chasing each of these ideas, clacking, moving the air and drifting us back to reality. She closed her eyes and laughed something sweet and somber and I would not have traded that moment for anything.