People talk about loving life as if it’s something you’re supposed to wake up feeling every morning. As if the sun comes through the curtains, the birds start singing, and suddenly you’re overwhelmed with gratitude just to exist.
I’ve never felt like that.
I’ve also never hated life.
If you’ve read enough of what I’ve written, you could probably be forgiven for thinking I do. I’ve written about death, frustration, politics, ambition, money, disappointment and all the strange little thoughts that seem to arrive at two in the morning. I ask questions more than I give answers, and I have a habit of staring at ordinary things until they stop feeling ordinary.
That’s never come from hatred.
It comes from curiosity.
Life isn’t something I worship, and it isn’t something I resent. It’s just… here. Every day it throws something different at you. Sometimes it’s brilliant. Sometimes it’s cruel. Most of the time it’s somewhere in the middle, where nothing particularly dramatic happens but everything quietly matters.
That’s the part I’ve started to appreciate.
I don’t love life.
I love living it.
There’s a difference.
I love to;
- Walk into a record shop without knowing what I’ll walk out with.
- Hear an album for the first time and realising somebody I’ve never met somehow managed to put a feeling into words that I’d never been able to explain.
- Sit in my living room with a Pepsi and watching the football, when nothing has happened yet but it still feels like anything could.
- Wander around a city that’s completely unfamiliar, where every street feels like the beginning of another story.
- Fill notebooks with ideas that might never become anything.
- Have conversations that start with something completely pointless and somehow end with both people thinking differently.
I even love the days that don’t seem worth remembering while they’re happening. The ordinary ones. The days where you buy a coffee, listen to a few songs, write a couple of paragraphs, look out of a train window and go home again.
You don’t realise how valuable those days are until enough of them have passed.
I spend a lot of time thinking about the future. Probably too much. What I want to build. Where I want to live. The places I want to visit. The articles I haven’t written yet. Sometimes it’s exciting. Sometimes it becomes exhausting, because the future has a habit of making today feel like it’s just a waiting room.
But today isn’t a waiting room.
It’s part of the thing I’ve been waiting for all along.
Predestination. Foresight. Coincidence?
One day, I’ll probably look back at this version of myself and laugh. I’ll notice all the things I got wrong. I’ll wonder why I worried so much. Perhaps I’ll wish I’d slowed down every now and then instead of racing towards whatever came next.
That’s the strange thing about life. You never realise you’re living the days you’ll eventually miss.
I don’t think life has to be perfect for it to be worth appreciating. I don’t think every day needs a lesson, or every setback needs to become some inspirational story. Some days are simply bad days. Some moments hurt more than you expect them to. That’s part of the deal.
None of that stops me from wanting to wake up tomorrow and see what happens next.
Maybe that’s enough.
I don’t have life figured out, and I don’t think I ever will. The older I get, the more I suspect nobody else does either. We’re all making it up as we go, collecting memories, chasing ideas, changing our minds and hoping that, somehow, we’re heading in the right direction.
There’s something comforting about that.
For all the time I’ve spent questioning the world, I’ve realised I’ve never actually wanted to escape it. I’ve wanted to understand it. To see more of it. Write about it. Hear the music it creates, to meet the people inside it, to walk its streets, read its books and discover the things I don’t even know exist yet.
Life isn’t something I love.
It’s too complicated for that.
But living it?
I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
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