Dear Diary,
Today I remember I exist.
Isn’t it funny that I usually forget until I am about to go to sleep.

I made myself a cup of tea, and witnessed the holy wisps of ephemerality returning to the world of ambiguity.

Does it always do that?

You probably think I’m going to express my inner thoughts about how beautiful life is, or better yet, lament the incessant and persistent struggle of pain, but nevertheless find solace in some transcendent nothingness.

Maybe.

I mean, how many poets and philosophers does it take to repeat the sacred mantra –
I am That.

Not me, I am no poet. No philosopher.
No lover of the unloved.
No embracer of the unwanted.

Right now I have no plans.
I am slowly sipping green tea, transitioning between talking to you,
a niggun beckoning me to go out on a search for lost goats on Judean Hills,
and finding childish joy from vanishing smoke.

This may be my greatest poem yet. A true ode to the ineffable.

The interesting thing about remembering is that you totally forget what you were doing before you started remembering.
I wonder what I forgot this time.

I dreamt last night that my Zeidy shouted at me for disgracing the family.

Pain. Unreal. Irrelevant.

If this how Job felt when he remembered he existed?