Even in the dream-clouded dawn when the air is cold and my bones are heavy, my life is a gift of possibilities. I'm a human among humanity. It might have been easier to compromise, to marry young, to abandon the global for the local and become another rube in a minivan who runs a stop sign at 6 A.M. for a thrill and doesn't tell his wife for fear that her mouth will make that wrinkly "O" shape after "How was your day?"
There's something more for me, a giving of myself. I feel it when I walk the streets, bathing in curious urban dialect. It's in the smell of sewage and the savage scream of someone's child who wants pancakes at 6 P.M. Really, why not pancakes at 6 P.M.? I could provide that. I like pancakes. I haven't any syrup, which might bring another savage scream. Powdered sugar and fresh fruit are not good enough.
Maybe that something isn't for me, but if it isn't, it's for someone who knows me. It's always there. Some days it's heavy, an obligation. Other days it's light and bright and zooms me forward out of a vacuum. It might be God, but it's probably just life.