Yesterday was a great day.
I was looking forward to a Saturday where I could just take the day for “me.” I woke up at 11 (world record!) and spent a few hours in bed, drinking coffee, reading, writing, and listening to Savoir Adore, Daft Punk, Paul Simon, and probably Miley Cyrus. Then I got into a crazy cleaning mode, and swept, scrubbed, and dusted every inch of my apartment. (Feels SO good.)
While I was cleaning my room, I came across my day calendar that I keep in the “miscellaneous” corner with my sneakers, candles, and wine bottles. I keep all the paper days I rip off because they’re intstagram photos (cool gift!), and when I picked up all the old pictures, I strangely realized I was holding every single day since January 1st.
Days can seem super long, weeks can fly by, and while I can remember celebrating the ball dropping in a carpeted living room with friends in Brooklyn, I can barely remember the resolutions I half-committed to, or what I did the following morning.
In other words, time is a strange thing to feel.
But in that moment yesterday, I saw that huge stack and squeezed them between my palms, realizing how many days had passed by, and how each of those little pieces of paper represented so many moments: moments to choose happiness, to connect with a stranger, to be honest, to make mistakes, to fear, to love. I became optimistically overwhelmed by what I can only pinpoint as “opportunity.”
In a weird way, I was holding time in my hand, and hopeful that I made the most of all those days — and all the moments enveloped in them.