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Contentment

It is a strange feeling I find myself having this morning. I’d intended that, at this time, I’d be in the process of wrestling some of the pieces of the long, interesting month gone past into satisfiably recognizable shapes; that did not happen. Instead, I begin with the strange, inexplicable conviction that, in some unquestionable way, all is right with the world.

It would ordinarily be infuriating not to be able to explain something I feel deeply or question the workings of a suspect system; not all is right with the world, I think, but it is strange: I do not even feel indignant at the moment – though I can remember what it feels like. I’ve been overwhelmed with indignation, I’ve brimmed over with frustration, I’ve felt righteous anger, and all recently.

None of these things are on the menu for me at the moment; what I do have is something else. It may be something I haven’t had recently, but it’s something I’ve had before, and I found that it was good; and though it may not have the distinction of being new under the sun, I am content, for I have my portion.

I, who had set out to make what I could of fragments, found myself at another point of departure with the knowledge of a grace of surpassing virtue.

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