I forget sometimes. To me, it's Sunday morning, and I have to leave for work before long. But to the rest of the world, it's still Saturday night. The bars have all closed, but the traffic still flows, a steady stream of cars making their way down my street as I walk my dog.
The faces can't be seen as they speed by in darkness, but I know them. Some are young and some are old, most are male, black, white, Latino, all of them chasing the promise of the night, hoping that one more drink, one more bar, one more visit to wherever they're going, one more anything will be the magic bullet, the elusive and indescribable something that will make everything better, at least for the moment and maybe beyond.
There's an appeal to it, maybe, and I almost feel like jumping in one of these cars as it passes, to go where it will take me, to live in a moment utterly unconcerned with the future, to live, however briefly, in a world in which consequences are never considered.
But no car, no drink, no nothing could ever take me to such a place. I'm always thinking ahead, I'm always aware of the fallout to my actions, I'm never able to just relax and enjoy the moment for whatever it is. Sure, the Saturday night crowd sometimes only find happiness in superficial ways, and it may be fleeting, but at least it's there. They know a bliss not attainable to me, not quite, not really. What am I missing, and how can I find it?
Isabella pulls at her leash. She's caught a scent of something and means to follow it. She turns to me, wondering why I simply stand, why I don't run with her to track down her prey. She tilts her head as she regards me, one ear flopping inside out, her nose quivering.
Oh, I think as I bend down to hug her. This is what happiness feels like.