Monday, May 14, 2012

Strolling Bloor on Friday night, late, but the streets still full of people trying to hold on to the first good day of sunshine the way bricks hold on to heat.

Outside an Italian restaurant, a group of eight dudes sit in the entry or stand. One has a guitar and sings along as he plays a Keane song. When he reaches the chorus, everyone around him joins in: And if you have a moment why don't we go, talk about it somewhere only we know?

We always sing loudest the parts we're certain of, as if it compensates for not knowing all of the verses. Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't matter if it does. We take the music where we can find it, the moments that make you stop and be—pulled right out of your head into the present where impromptu live sidewalk karaoke happens as if it ain't no thing. Because the people singing are happy, all lost in the song and the moment, and they don't care that the song itself isn't necessarily happy.

I had just fought for what felt like hours to eke out words that I probably won't keep on a book that I may not finish. And I wondered about this need to stick to something, to just finish what I started, and how it serves me if what I started is no longer what I want to finish. I thought about happiness being like a candle flame, my hands cupped around it for warmth and to keep the constant wind from blowing it out.

Those dudes on Bloor weren't working at being happy. They weren't struggling to keep it. They just were happy—you could hear it in their harmonies.

And I thought: City, I love you right now. Thank you for this.

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