It is the quiet victories that add up. As if, in their loneliness, in the manner that they are apart, they resound, like a tremulous echo in the darkened amphitheater, growing, never quite the boisterous crescendo, but accurate, hitting the right notes, the exact vibrations attune with something we all recognize as the tune of naked honesty and intimate truth. Solemn victories, like unknown heroes, who are not marred by renown or prestige, but instead, in their humility, prove their genuineness are deeply personal, and infinitely appreciated.
I'm learning to live off of this tiny triumphs: wake-up on time, get the day's work done, manage to exercise daily. It makes me feel human, as if I am exercising my existence, and winning. It could be said that I am petty, easily pleased, and seemingly wanting of headier fruits. The bumpkin's limited perspective affords him an infinite vista of enjoyments. And I do suffer from excessive wonder, of an overpowering sensation of curiosity and mirth upon meeting the unfamiliar, shaking its hand, and finding out its quite friendly.
It's a simple life perhaps, to appreciate all things; straightforward, to simply live. Unremarkable, yes, but content. And in these times, contentment is worth its weight in happiness.
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