I locked my bike to yours

I was sitting in the library looking out the window listening to Jack Johnson, watching people walk by, watching the leaves swirl up around them as they kicked their feet. And I saw myself doing this. I also saw myself curled up in a ball, hiding my wet face underneath the table I was sitting at. And I saw myself mustering all my Leo-like charisma, walking out of the library with a smile on my face greeting friends and strangers alike, letting go. So I just kept breathing. Breathing in love and breathing out gratitude. In. Love. Out. Gratitude. Belly breaths, you know. Not those wimpy breaths that deprive my lungs of liveliness that I'm used to. 

It's a soft day. Do you know what I mean? Where the softness and squishiness of my all too human body is all too evident. When my thoughts are much quieter and gentler. When abrasive people have the power to demolish me entirely. When I realize how much I love the people who introduced me to the music I'm listening to. And how much I miss them. And how I will miss the people around me the same way I miss the people who were once around me. And I notice how the fall air feels on bottoms of my toes. And how that new conditioner makes my hair feel so soft on my neck. 

And the pain of the of our lives continues. Progresses, even. That's one of those words that makes me cringe--progress. Praw-gress. Pro-gress. And today, I don't just know there is pain, but I feel it deep within my squishy body. It makes me long all the more for new human connections, for deeper human connections. For moments when I think of dear friend, then moments later my phone glows illuminating their name and a message or call from them. For those moments when a smile from someone who seems to be a stranger but feels like a past sister or brother.  

And there will be more pain in the world tomorrow than there is today. But the softness of today is gentle enough to feel the pain and at the same time notice the goodness that balances it.