There are days when what I'm doing doesn't make sense, but then there are days when I'm absolutely certain that if I was doing something different, I would long for this existence like a heartache. The time I spend feeling like I can't possibly be doing enough does not, ultimately, help. So I keep on, telling myself that until someone shouts at me to stop, I will keep going.
While I wait for the internet to be set up at my new apartment, I'm spending more time in cafés and in the homes of accommodating, helpless friends. Today, working from a coffee shop with the most perfect height of table, I watched as a couple in their sixties came in, ordered two identical coffees and sat down, before taking out their respective newspapers and reading them in the most perfect, wordless companionship.