It was surreal, this year, to have a birthday. I remember going through it and wondering what it was supposed to be. Was it too normal? Did I travel too far, in the past year, for me to recognize this mortal life again? — not like this. What was I supposed to feel? What was I supposed to do? I was supposed to be special that day, but this type of thing, do we take it so very seriously? I’m a year older: yes, that was the crux of it. But that I was alive at all, should we not celebrate this every day? Maybe in a sober joy. My birthday: it built up, it came, it went. Perhaps there is nothing there to understand, at all. Just be in whatever moment fortune has decided you are to ride. Sometimes drive.
