A colloid of chamomile floats about in the mug as I sit and deliberate over the parts of this day that fit the bill of these scribbles I have begun to write around my days, and I cannot find much for it has been as befuddling a day as it could be, like rain with the sun and other improbabilities. But most days have the quality of being redeemed towards their end. Not because they did not happen, not because their impact is softened, but only because hope is forgiving, and somewhat relentless. I stare at the golden tea in the cup before I take the last sip and decide to shut the lamp, which, in perfect choreography, is gold too. I do this, and I put my chips on tomorrow. I wager it may be better, knowing all too well that it may very well be worse. And I hope, with all my heart, I claim the pot. And that is perhaps why I set an alarm. And that is perhaps why I kiss her good night. And that is perhaps why I did the dishes. I reckon tomorrow may bring what it does, but it could be good; it could be grand, and I must be ready. We are perpetually gambling with our fates, and our days are the prize, and I have won more than I have lost. I brush today off as I remind myself of this. I look at her reading, and I remind myself of this. I keep the lights on for a little bit longer.
Yes, I have won on most days. I have won on the important ones.