Gratitude is something to behold, a work of art. My relationship with it feels tenuous, and the greatest privilege I’ve been given is the subtle and slow development of a faith that it will persist.
This gratitude belies a pernicious, persistent feeling that life is a bit…hollow. Riding the wave of presentism, of capital and desire and want and rhythm, it’s easy to feel hollow — and far harder to feel whole. I can’t deny that something is missing.
Just what it is, I don’t know.