Sometimes I think it’s like a tap, not tightly enough wound, dripping in the next room. Sometimes you notice it, sometimes you don’t, but you know it’s still dripping because no-one has turned it. Sometimes it makes you really mad, but still you wait for someone else to turn it.
There’s a show on Netflix where 5 beautiful men go into someone’s life and breathe love into it. It’s pure and joyful and will make you cry in a way that cleanses your soul. I watched an episode recently where a young widower, now a single father to two young boys, spoke about his late wife. “She squeezed every drop of joy out of life.” I cried for him, and his beautiful wife and children, but really I suppose I was crying for me, in a roundabout way. It made me think, self-obsessed as I am, if I died would anyone be able to say that about me? Am I squeezing the joy out of life?