I’ve told myself that things would get better. It has, even when most days I fail to notice. Outside, somewhere in a different country, even somewhere here in my country, someone has it worse. Someone has lost their brother, a son, a sister, a lover.
I sit here in the cool air conditioning, scratching my head, counting my lost hours, regretting the last 13 days — unaware that I’ve got it good, because all this time I’ve taken breathing for granted. Still, I’d like to believe that somehow this doesn’t fully discredit my suffering. And yet I’m well aware that this is my undoing.
And just when I feel that I’m approaching the conclusion of my peace, her voice washes into our bedroom, overfilling my once fleeting reserve of joy to its brim, where I stand flooded in your kindness. I thought I would be sad today, I thought that by the time you returned I would continue into my descend, never quite understanding the reason behind my constant disarray. Instead, I’m met with your returning empathy, although you’ve proved yourself to be more than a handful when you’re upset, I still believe it’s a fair exchange for your friendship and love.
So, I suppose this is a good time and reason for me to show thanks for another day; another opportunity. And despite it being a cliche, I feel that it is one worthy of remembering, no matter how many times it is recited to us throughout our lives. Because our days are numbered and forever passing, I believe it to be a wise decision to count our blessings, no matter how big or small the advantages differ when compared to our neighbors.