(found in a place that was just alright, to be honest)
Don’t be so worried about me. Things are fine. Things are alright. And – I know, I know – that they’re always alright and that they’re always fine. But, listen, dear Ulrich, just shut up and listen to me, for once.
And don’t give me that look whenever it is when we see each other again, and you ask me how I am. I’m just fine. At least, I can only ever hope to be just fine.
And don’t insult me by implying that I’m anywhere nearly as simple as you hope.
Fine is a perfectly good place to be, Ulrich. I don’t understand how that’s difficult to understand. I’ve felt better. I mean, I’ve always felt better. As long as I’m alive, I’ll always know that to be true. That I’ve always felt better, that that better feeling remains possible, remains something I can chase down and maybe feel again.
Satisfaction, Ulrich, is for the elderly. Contentment is for those coughing their last breaths on their death beds. What do I have to be satisfied about or proud of? I’m not dead yet. I’m not dying. What use is there to sit back on my throne – if there is even any throne at all – and count my blessings when there are still more blessings to be gathered?
I will work towards something, keeping my head down, Ulrich, and my eyes focused steadily on the mundanity of the world as it passes beneath my feet. I will work and work, and I will be fine. I will be fine until something strikes me, some cacophony of feeling that forces me to be good or great or fantastic. Then the moment will pass, Ulrich, as all moments do. So then I will be working again, and I will just be fine.
And, I have to be honest, Ulrich, that this is the way I like it. This is exactly the way I would prefer things to be.
If things got too good, I mean, if they ever got great, well, there just wouldn’t be anything left to do. There’d be nowhere else to go.
So things are fine. They’re either fine, or they’re something less than that. But right now, things are just fine.
I am just fine.
How are you?
My best regards,