And then there came a new day in which you could tell a new story

And then there came a new day in which you could tell a new story. Whatever didn’t fit the new story didn’t need to keep being remembered. Whatever made the new story make sense, was dwelt upon continuously. A new day in early spring came along, after heavy thundershowers and a tornado watch in the morning. You skipped church for the third week in a row, because you again had too much homework to do for your seminary classes. This wasn’t necessarily irony, it was just the way things were.

Jesus was coming back around again, and you could almost make yourself believe that all of the Chinese herbs and Big Pharma tonics were helping you regrow thick, black hair. Laying there on the couch, while everyone napped, your mind wandered to what an early spring day in Missouri once was like. Sometimes there was still snow on the ground. The trees were not nearly as far along in foliage as they can be down here in early April. It might have once been a day to try to quit smoking cigarettes again. It might have been a morning at home with your family, whom you thought you hated, but you really desperately loved and missed all the time.

And now, there are just as many early spring mornings that have fallen for you in Austin as they have in Missouri, and the memories run together into a weird mixture of seeking the elixir of great health and vitality and seeking more booze and smoke-filled rooms with loud blues and alternative rock bands playing.

The especially cool thing is, nobody has to know anything about you, because nobody really does. All the people from your past have forgotten you, and the people of your present and future are looking over at you to see who you will be next. You don’t have to be cool at all, but you certainly don’t have to fill yourself full of angst about the future and death, either.

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