A Call to Keys

by Griffin O'Hara


After the last post, I got a bunch of questions, as though I actually knew something. Well, I don’t, and that’s alright. 

Of course I’m flattered. That’s a lot of —if not all—of the reason why I… do stuff. Write, talk, whatever. That little moment of acknowledgement by another person. We’ll never quite understand each other, though, and we’ll always assume the answers lie in someone else. But it’s okay to not be understood, and not to know the answers. 

So uhh, I’m in a caffeinated daze (cold-brew’ll do that) and trying to make sense of things. But aren’t we all. Problems and solutions. Hell, I’m not gonna solve shit. But I’ll keep trying. I think the secret is to keep trying, but to not be tied to my own success or failure. Just to try. Try.

I like to find something to be grateful for. Both easier and harder than you would think.

Spent an absurdly frustrating hour trying to talk to my parents who just got back from a long trip across London, Paris, and New York. I love imagining them walking confused and amazed through Europe, because they’ve been wanting to visit for the longest time.

Damn that was good coffee, but it got watery towards the end. Melted ice. Served out of a giant coffee-mug building by the side of the road, small asian proprietor that has the nicest smile and some crooked teeth. The coffee kind of shakes you alive, drink enough of it and you begin to levitate somewhere above your own thoughts.

I’m alive. That’s good. Life is the hardest thing we’ll ever do. Ah.

But isn’t that difficulty the beauty of it? I covered it a bit in the last post. But what’s good without a little work?

I’m starting to realize how much I love good food. There’s a passion there, and I wonder if it’s pointing the way for me. Coffee and Beer are both eternal wells of happiness for me–the kind of gratitude that you shake your head at and are glad you don’t have to explain it to anyone.

What are you passionate about? What are you thankful for? I am thankful for you. And for me too.

 

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